


Little Talks

by AquaMarinara



Series: Little Talks [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: A lot of changes to character ages, And Gladys & FP are together and happy, Because I'm sick of them, But Betty wishes they were, Chic doesn't exist, Comic book!parents, F/M, Jughead lives down the street and not on the Southside, Mild Angst, Pining!Betty Cooper, Slow Burn, So no Evil!Alice & Hal, Sorry Not Sorry, Their parents are close friends, Them...not so much, lots o' fluff, some smut, the course of true love never did run smooth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-06-17 04:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 54,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15453246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaMarinara/pseuds/AquaMarinara
Summary: Betty continues to watch him all night, hoping he’ll open his mouth to talk to her instead of shouting animatedly at the tv screen. Or that he’ll hand over his controller and let her try for a round, prove she belongs.And though she doesn’t remember much else about that night, Betty does remember one glaring detail: He never even looks at her.





	1. 2nd Grade

**Author's Note:**

> Look who's finally delivering fics on time!
> 
> This story is very near and dear to my heart, as I've lived through most of it. Obviously it has been modified to fit into the Riverdale world, but the backbone is still there.
> 
> This is just the prologue to the rest of the fic, and I promise that the other chapters will be much much longer than this. Cross my heart and swear to die.
> 
> This is unbeta'd (is anyone really surprised?), so please excuse any mistakes.
> 
> (Title comes from the Of Monsters and Men song)

Her first memory of him is splotchy, full of missing little bits and pieces and scattered details.

 

She’s eight, sitting in the Jones living room on one end of the couch. He’s shoved up on the other side, tucked so far into the armrest that if she didn’t know any better, she would almost think he’s avoiding her on purpose.

 

Her parents are down the hall, drinking with Gladys (not FP. Never FP. Even with her hazy memories, Betty remembers clearly just how careful FP was about his family’s history with alcohol) at the dinner table. They’ve just had dinner, so dirty napkins are strewn on chairs, forks and knives are left behind in used plates, and the wine bottle has already been depleted halfway. The kids have run off with the intention of participating in more exhilarating activities, but the adults are content to chatter about anything and everything as Gladys’s many decorative candles melt down.

 

She watches him play Call of Duty intently. His tongue sticks out between the corner of his lip, his crown beanie tips precariously over the right half of his head, and his knuckles are white as he grips the controller. 

 

Hotdog lays on the rug by the couch, under Betty’s swinging feet (she’s too short to reach the floor just yet). He seems to be asleep, and Betty idly wonders if that’s the only thing he does all day. It’s the only thing her little kitten Caramel seems to do.

 

(Betty thinks that if she were ever to be reincarnated—as she’d learned in social studies class is actually a popular belief about the afterlife—she’d want to be a Riverdale house pet. She wouldn’t have a care in the world. And no homework! Now, that’s the life…)

 

Polly, her younger sister by three years, hides behind the back of the couch. The top of her blonde head peeks out as her eyes catch a glimpse of Jughead’s character shooting a group of men down in his video game, blood splattering on the screen, and then it disappears again.

 

Betty watches Jughead, but can see Polly’s head reemerge every now and again out of her peripheral vision. “Polly,” she hisses.

 

“What?” comes a surprised little squeak from where Betty knows her sister’s body is curled up, scared.

 

“Why do you keep looking if you already know that you don’t like what’s on the tv?”

 

Polly sighs, and then replies weakly, “I want to watch. I want to be cool like you guys. But why does there have to be so much blood?” She asks the last part weakly, and Betty almost feels sorry for her sister.

 

It seems Jughead has overheard their conversation—after all, they are only sitting a few feet away from each other—and he gives out a small huff, eyes never moving from the screen, fingers still playing with the Xbox controller.

 

“Because it’s fun.” He speaks as if it’s the easiest, most obvious answer in the world. His voice is full of the authority that comes with being older, wiser. Although he’s only a year older than Betty, he seems to have everything figured out already.

 

She’s only more in-awe of him now than she was before.

 

Polly slinks out from behind the couch, probably heading towards the dining room to be consoled by her adoring mother, and it’s just the two of them in the room now.

 

If she wants to become friends, or _anything,_ with him, now’s her chance. She just needs to say something. Anything. _Say something, Betty,_ she urges.

 

But she’s stuck, mouth glued shut, eyes open wide, limbs frozen. But maybe it’s for the best. Maybe she would just embarrass herself anyway. She’s only in second grade, and he’s in third. What does she know? What could she possibly say that would make him like her? Or want to talk to her?

 

Nothing, she decides, so she just sits there on her end of the couch, hands wedged under her thighs so that they can’t fidget nervously.

 

Betty continues to watch him all night, hoping he’ll open his mouth to talk to her instead of shouting animatedly at the tv screen. Or that he’ll hand over his controller and let her try for a round, prove she belongs.

 

And though she doesn’t remember much else about that night, Betty does remember one glaring detail: He never even looks at her.

 


	2. 9th Grade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a lot of notes at the end where I'll pour all of my 3am thoughts out, but I just wanted to quickly thank some people. Thank you to all my sprinter! supporters on Discord (Dottie, Evie, Cass, Summer, Cyd, Lyss, Ana, Ari, and many more that I'm probably forgetting. Sorry). Without you, this chapter would not be out right now. Thank you to Sarah for welcoming me into the Discord family to begin with and for being so super patient with me while I figured it all out.
> 
> To Dottie especially, thank you for staying up with me. Love ya, girl.
> 
> As always, this chapter is not beta'd (I had Dottie help me with some lines but we were both sleep-deprived and drowsy, so...). If there's any glaring mistakes, please let me know and I will fix them tomorrow.
> 
> Enjoy!

After that night, Jughead Jones becomes just another background character in the story of her life. She knows he exists, obviously, and they see each other at the occasional family dinner party. But Betty never really thinks about him all that much.

She doesn’t have a reason to think about him at all until the third Wednesday of ninth grade. Clubs had been formed, meeting schedules set, and—as only an overenthusiastic freshman would—Betty had booked every single one of her afternoons.

She and Ethel have just slipped out from a dwindling meeting on meningitis awareness (ran by the aptly-named Meningitis Awareness Club) and are heading down the empty after-school hallways when the curly-haired girl stops right after crossing the doorway to Mr. Green’s classroom.

Betty stops as well, about to ask her friend what’s wrong, when Ethel grabs her quickly by the arm. She yanks Betty against the lockers lining the walls, and Betty would let out a small yelp, but there’s a menacing finger against Ethel’s lips that somehow forces her mouth to stay shut.

Said finger then moves to gesture towards the room they’ve just passed, and Ethel whispers, “Did you look in there?” Her eyes are wide and excited, as if she’s just discovered the map to El Dorado.

Betty rolls her eyes. “No, Ethel, I didn’t look in there. I was too busy paying attention to where I was going.”

Ethel pointedly ignores Betty’s snide remark and pushes her friend far enough towards the doorway so that she can see inside.

Betty’s a little disappointed, if she’s going to be completely honest. She truly _was_ expecting it to be some hidden treasure. Instead, it’s just Jughead Jones.

(Albeit, a lot more handsome than she remembers him to be. His hair has grown out a bit, and a small curl hangs over his forehead just so. And the way his fingers grip the pen in his hands is—well, it’s quite attractive.)

A small blush crawls up Betty’s neck, but she ignores it as she turns to face Ethel again.

“What exactly am I supposed to be seeing here, Eth?”

“Did you see him?” She asks with unbridled excitement in her voice, which is still lowered in an effort to remain unnoticed.

“ _No,_ Ethel, I didn’t see the only mildly interesting thing in that whole entire room,” Betty drawls. 

Again, Ethel brushes off the sarcasm. “Well, I’ve heard a lot of girls in our grade secretly like him,” she threads the fingers of her hands together, almost nervously.

Betty’s eyes narrow. Not because it’s so totally unbelievable that girls have a crush on Jughead Jones ( _that,_ she can understand. He got that brooding, mysterious vibe going for him, and the fact that he’s a year older than them doesn’t exactly hurt. A lot of girls like that sort of thing). But because she can’t believe that Ethel would know about these things. She’s not usually the type to pay attention to gossip and rumors. And even if Ethel hadn’t explicitly asked to be privy to such information, there’s no way somebody would’ve come right out and told her. Maybe there’s something Ethel’s keeping from her—

Betty doesn’t have too long to ponder the thought before an unfamiliar pang hits her chest. As if she’s just been hit by a perfectly-pitched baseball to the heart. It enters her bloodstream, pumped through her veins by the organ of life, and Betty nearly topples over. It seems whatever disease she’s just contracted has somehow already made it’s way to her brain, and then her eyes are only seeing in shades of red and green. _What in the…_

Her vision blurs with images of Cheryl Blossom, all cherry lips and pale skin, flirting with Jughead during gym class, flipping her fiery red hair over her shoulders as she bends over to pick up the volleyball rolling towards her. Or of Toni Topaz crossing her legs as she sits next to him at their lunch table, ensuring that her pink plaid miniskirt rides up her thighs just that much more.

Or of…Betty shakes her head clear, and she can see the empty hallway again, full of blues and golds and silvers.

She shouldn’t be thinking that way.

But she does. The floodgates seem to have opened, and there’s nobody to close them. 

In an even worse turn of events, her thoughts become angry and wild. _How dare these girls swoop in and like him out of nowhere? They didn’t even know him. If anyone knew Jughead Jones it was Betty Cooper. She’d known him since they were in elementary school, for crying out loud!_

Betty’s not entirely sure what snaps her out of it—what shuts those floodgates. If it’s Ethel waving her hands in front of Betty’s glazed-over gaze, or the intensity (the uncharacteristic intensity and depravity) of those last thoughts, or something else entirely, but suddenly she’s Betty Cooper again.

The Betty Cooper who can think rationally, and introspectively. _What just happened? Is she…jealous of those other girls? Does Betty Cooper_ like _Jughead Jones?_

Yes, that must be it.

She lets those words tumble around in her mind for a bit as she walks side by side with Ethel towards the exit of the building, legs now on autopilot. Eventually, she decides she likes the sound of them: Betty Cooper likes Jughead Jones. _Betty Cooper likes Jughead Jones._

And she’s going to get him to like her back. 

 

~~~

 

First things first: Tell Veronica Lodge.

The two girls had become best friends after Veronica had moved to Riverdale from New York City in eighth grade. They’d had English together with Mrs. Adams on the first day of school, and the teacher’s assigned seating chart (or fate, as they liked to call it) had brought them together.

Betty knows by now that if she doesn’t tell Ronnie about her newest realization (that she has a crush. A _crush!_ ), the raven-haired girl will have her head.

That night, during their daily FaceTime session (during which they’re meant to be studying for tomorrow’s exam on algebraic proofs), Betty lets it slip.

On the blonde’s computer screen, Veronica’s head is tilted towards her desk, where she’s busy furiously erasing her work. Betty can tell she’s stressed out, her thin eyebrows knotted together, so she reasons it’s the perfect time for a distraction.

“Hey, Ronnie,” she ventures softly, so as not to startle her friend (they often work in comfortable silence. And any disruption of said silence can be quite alarming).

Veronica’s head snaps up to look at her screen, and she drops the pencil and eraser in her hands. “What’s up, B?” 

“You know Archie’s best friend?” She knows that Veronica knows exactly who she’s talking about. The first time Veronica had come over to Betty’s, she had quite literally run into the Cooper’s ginger-haired neighbor while he was jogging down his driveway to start on his daily run—shirtless, as always. Ever since then, Veronica had made it her mission to know anything and everything about the ginger boy of her dreams. It goes without saying that all of the girls’ sleep overs were at Betty’s house after that.

“The guy with the suspenders?” she ventures with a quirked eyebrow. “Not exactly my kind of fashion statement, but a fashion statement nonetheless. One that quite clearly says ‘I don’t give a fuck’,” Veronica adds on quickly.

Betty huffs a laugh. “Yeah, the guy with the suspenders. Well, uh, I kind of think I like him,” she says slowly in an attempt to temper Veronica’s reaction.

It doesn’t work.

A shriek rips through Betty’s headphones and she has to rip them out of her ears. When she looks at the screen of her laptop again, she sees V’s mouth moving at a mile a minute, the brunette not having realized that Betty can no longer hear her, so Betty slips her headphones back in.

“—And we can go on double dates, and it’ll be so perfect, B!” she squeals again.

There’s a small pause when a flicker of _something_ passes across Veronica’s face, and then she’s asking: “But why the sudden interest?”

Betty sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and pauses for a few seconds. She doesn’t exactly know how to explain the history between her and Jughead Jones, or the mini-meltdown she had in the hallway earlier today. So she goes for the simple answer: “Umm, actually I’ve known him for a while. Even longer than I’ve known Archie. But I just saw him again today, and he’s grown…a lot.”

A knowing grin pops up on Veronica’s face, and she nods before sweeping a pile of papers and her math notebook to the side of her desk.

“Well, my dear,” she says, smile bright and almost wicked. “Then we must forget about algebra for tonight. There’s a lot of scheming to be had.”

 

~~~

 

Step 1 of Veronica’s foolproof plan: Exposure.

Not only was Betty supposed to start paying a bit more attention to her appearance (in that Jughead was an older guy, and older guys like girls who wear skirts with hems closer to their hips than their knees), but she also needed to see him (and be seen by him) more often.

So, instead of going to stalker lengths and following the knitted gray beanie around the hallways, Betty decides to switch up her daily routes between classes. And if she bumps into him on her way to Chemistry, or spots him leaving his American History classroom at the end of third period as she walks to English, well..that wouldn’t be so bad.

At night, once she’s shut her light off so that her mother doesn’t suspect her to still be awake, Betty stays up reading gossip magazine articles and advice on her phone about “how to get a guy.” She scrolls through some tips before finding the ones she likes (that are reasonable, considering she hasn’t uttered a single word to Jughead Jones in years, and therefore cannot just walk up to him, subtly graze his arm with delicate fingers, and “compliment something other than his looks”).

Her main strategy, as of right now, is to smile. Seems simple enough. As cheery-and-bright Betty Cooper, most people only ever see her smiling. But sometimes, on those mornings when everything feels like _too much_ , she lets the corners of her lips drop, if only slightly. And what if he’s seen her like that? What if he thinks she’s some crazy, depressed girl who doesn’t know how to have fun? Betty Cooper can have fun— _be_ fun.

Lying in her bed under the dim glow of the screen of her phone, Betty decides that she won’t ever let him see her without a smile on her face, laughter escaping her lips, and a twinkle in her eyes as she walks hand in hand with Veronica, or Ethel, or Kevin, or anyone else, for that matter. As long as she looks happy. And friendly.

Because who wants to go out with some depressed loner?

 

~~~

 

Her plan ends up backfiring horribly.

It works for a few days, as she laughs along with Kevin on their way up the steep staircase to lunch, arms looped together (Betty ignores the odd look her friend sends her way when she even lets out a giggle at his comment about “the tragedy that is the Twilight’s Halloween line-up”).

Jughead never even spares her a second glance as they pass by each other, but she doesn’t give up hope.

Until it all goes to shit. 

It’s a Wednesday (as she had been reminded by Polly’s incessant blasting of the “it’s Wednesday, my dudes,” vine from their shared bathroom), and she and Veronica have just shut their lockers and begun to walk down the empty hall when a huge wave of students exits the pre-calc classroom after a review session. She manages to lose Veronica in the chaos of the crowd, but doesn’t think much of it. She’s disoriented and a bit frustrated, sure, but she doesn’t panic. Betty Cooper is fully capable of walking by herself.

Well, Betty Cooper is fully capable of walking by herself under normal circumstances.

It’s not a normal circumstance when she reaches the intersection with the stairwell and comes face to face with the beanie-clad boy of her dreams as he descends the last step. Suddenly, she feels the absence of her best friend by her side more than ever, as if a part of her left lung has been ripped out of her chest, and she can no longer breathe. _He can’t see me without her,_ is her immediate thought. And the only one she acts on. In a split second full of confused panic, her mind somehow thinks the best course of action is to flee, and so she turns on the heels of her flats and sets off in the opposite direction, vision blurring as her eyes water.

The bathroom seems as good a place to hide as any. It’s private, and stocked with enough tissue paper and water for her to begin damage control. She knows her skin must be unevenly red and splotchy, and her fly-aways will definitely need to be smoothed down with some water (a trick she’d learned in fourth grade when Polly used the last of her hairspray). It doesn’t hurt that it’s also the first door that her eyes land on. She needs to get out of this hallway, out of his line of sight.

Unfortunately, there’s no way he could have missed her. If the panicked look that transformed her facial features hadn’t been alarming enough, her clumsy movements definitely made up for it.

Betty notices the bathroom stalls are all empty and allows a sob to slip from her throat. She sinks to the tile floor by the counters, hair frizzing from the electricity created as it slides against the wall.

Betty doesn’t have to lift her head from where it’s resting between her bent knees to know the person to follow her into the bathroom is Veronica. She also knows that Veronica isn’t going to join her on the floor; she’s wearing a new Gucci mini-skirt today.

What she doesn’t expect is her best friend’s reaction to the scene in front of her.

An inelegant snort comes from above, and Betty finally looks up. The brunette has a hand clamped over her plum-colored lips to keep another sound from escaping, and Betty can only wipe away the tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand.

“Just let it out, V,” she groans.

Veronica can’t help herself at the invitation and blurts out a quick, “Oh my god,” before dissolving into a fit of giggles. “What the hell was that, B? When I said ‘exposure’, I meant _good_ exposure. Not running around like a headless chicken right in front of him!”

Tears form in the corners of Betty’s eyes again. She’d known it was bad. But _that_ bad?

Veronica immediately notices her misstep. “Hey, hey, come on. No crying in the club. Or the school bathroom,” she scolds in a soft tone. At the sight of her friend’s devastated face, she adds, “I’m sure he’s already forgotten about it, B. What was that all about, anyway?”

“I don’t know, I got nervous. I wasn’t prepared for him to see me today. Look at what I’m wearing!” She flails her arms for emphasis, pointing to her wrinkled gray skater skirt and the baby pink shirt tucked into it.

“Betty Cooper, you look amazing, as always. This outfit makes your waist look tiny and, not to sound like a creepy old white man, but this shirt really accentuates those boobs.” (Betty is one-hundred-and-twenty-six percent sure that her friend is lying to her now.) “What you really need is some self-confidence, not a new wardrobe!”

The raven-haired beauty stretches out a hand to help her friend up. “There are always going to be days when we don’t feel our one-hundred percent best, but you’ve gotta fake it ’til you _are_ it, B! Now come on. Time to learn some of the tried and true Lodge secrets to looking self-assured, patent pending.”

She wrestles Betty out of the bathroom after assuring her that _“no, he isn’t still out there”_ with more than a few eye rolls and begins her lecture the second the toe of her Louboutin crosses onto Elm Street.

The trees lining the side of the road have been losing their leaves for a few weeks now, and Betty idly wonders if she can forego fifteen minutes of her study time to run through the pile of leaves her father had raked together yesterday evening.

Veronica interrupts her thoughts with a quick jolt to the shoulder, and a whiny “pay attention, B!” Her frown morphs into somewhat of a smirk, and she starts up again. “First off, we need to work on your gaze. You never make eye contact with people. That’s awkward for both parties.” She turns away from looking at the blonde beside her and looks down the street. “You see the car parked down the road? That hideous hunk of wood on wheels?”

The corners of Betty’s lips turn up at the comment. It’s her mother’s station wagon. “I’m not blind, V.”

Veronica huffs. “Perfect. Then you should be able to keep your eyes on it.” She runs up ahead in her stiletto heels—-how she doesn’t twist her ankle horribly, Betty will never know. “As I walk towards you, never stop looking at the car. It’s got all the right characteristics: next to me in your line of sight, inanimate, and unmoving.” Veronica flips her hair over her shoulders as she glides by Betty, but the blonde doesn’t move her eyes to catch the movement. She hears Veronica cheer from behind her. “Yes, that’s it, B! Now, anytime you’re walking down the hallway, or the road, or the runway, that’s exactly what you have to do.”

Suddenly, a sharp object digs into the center of Betty’s back through her shirt, and she squirms. “Shoulders back, Betty. Head up. Spine straight,” Veronica urges as she leaves her nail to gouge Betty’s skin. The blonde follows her orders, and Veronica clicks her tongue in approval. 

“Last, but certainly not least: Walk with purpose, B. You have places to be, people to see, and ass to kick.”

 

~~~

 

Betty doesn’t see Jughead much after that, but Veronica’s words come in handy quite often. When she walks by Cheryl Blossom in the hallways, Betty tilts her head up and stares straight ahead; Cheryl may be as intimidating as Hela, but Betty’s got the key to Ragnarok.

As the weather gets colder and snow begins to litter Riverdale’s sidewalks, midterms loom closer, and the stress of exams keeps Betty’s mind busy enough to push Jughead to the side (for the most part—sometimes he makes special appearances in her dreams, or when she’s trying extremely hard to fall asleep in the early hours of the morning).

She’s twirling a neon pink highlighter between her thumb and pointer finger as she skims over her biology notes for important vocabulary words when a knock at her bedroom door breaks her concentration. Alice opens the door wide enough to stick her head through the doorway and smiles at her studious daughter. “I’m going shopping tomorrow, Betty. Is there anything you need from the grocery store? Maybe some more conditioner?”

Confusion crosses the younger blonde’s face. If there’s anything the Coopers _don’t_ do, it’s break from routine. And grocery shopping is for Saturday mornings (and the Sunday farmer’s markets), not Wednesday afternoons. At the silent question on her daughter’s complexion, Alice chuckles. “I’ll take that as a no, then. I’m stopping by the store because I have to buy some more ingredients for the low-fat lasagna I’m making tomorrow night. The Joneses are coming over, and lord knows that family can eat.”

There’s a particular sparkle in Alice’s eye that indicates there’s more to her little pit stop by Betty’s room than a question about conditioner.

Betty tries to school her features. Her mother already seems to have her own set of devious plans; if she gets even an inkling about Betty’s crush, the young teen is doomed. “They’re coming over for dinner?” She checks just to make sure.

A tilted grin grows on Alice’s face. “Yes, now go to bed. You wouldn’t want to be too tired for your exam tomorrow.”

Betty nods silently as the door slips closed again, but now she’s got far more than biology on her mind. She checks the time: 9:35. Veronica should be calling right about—

“Hey, Ron,” Betty greets as she answers the FaceTime call, and the image of her best friend pops up on her screen. “Guess what?” Betty doesn’t give Veronica the time to answer, excitement bursting from her lips as she barrels on. 

By the time Betty has explained her mother’s unexpected visit and tomorrow’s _situation,_ Veronica sounds just as excited. Her voice has even raised a few octaves. “Oh-my-B! This is perfect.”

Betty doesn’t typically like that word, but she has to admit that it does seem pretty apt.

“This is exactly the exposure we were looking for. And if Jellybean’s coming, you get to show him just how good you are with little kids. It’s a pretty primal instinct, you know, but guys are attracted to women who display the characteristics of a good mother.”

Betty isn’t so sure about that, but she sure is excited to see Jelly. Thinking about it, the little girl must be four now. Betty can’t wait to see how big she’s gotten. The last time they’d seen each other, Jellybean had been rolling around the living room in her baby walker, repeatedly bumping into the coffee table as if it were a game.

She and Veronica spend the night planning out what she’s going to wear, how she’s going to style her hair, and the specific eyeshadow shades to blend onto her eyelids ( _“A dash of Flirty would just make your eyes_ pop _, B!”_ ).

The next morning, sitting in the freezing cold gym where all the biology students have been placed for their midterm, Betty works hard to stay focused. Once she’s turned in the paper at the front of the room, she thinks, overall, it didn’t go half-bad.

Her water bottle swings against her right thigh as she makes her way down the hall to her light pink locker. As much as she hates the bright pink shade of her bedroom (a vestige of her elementary-school years), Betty appreciates the color of her locker. This half of the hall is decorated in a light rosy pink, and the other in a dirty blue. A dirty _gray_ -blue that would probably make her depressed if she had to stare at it every morning while lugging textbooks into her arms.

As Betty turns her lock to the third and last digit of her combination, she catches a glimpse of blue (a much darker, much _nicer_ blue) plaid in her peripherals. She turns slowly, debating whether or not to send a wave his way—they _did_ know each other, after all, so it wouldn’t be _that_ weird—but he’s gone in a flash, walking quickly down the hall with headphones on. She turns back around to her now-open locker.

She’ll see him tonight anyway.

 

~~~

 

Except, she doesn’t.

Because as soon as Gladys Jones steps through the Coopers’ front door, she shoots Betty an apologetic look and blurts, “Jug was too tired out from his exams to come tonight.”

Betty feels like her world is crashing down around her ( _all that time—wasted_ ), but she pastes on a smile anyway.

“I’m really sorry, Betty,” Gladys pushes. “I promise I’ll find a way to get you guys together another time.” And now it almost seems like Gladys is _trying_ to get a reaction out of her (maybe her and her mother were working together), so Betty just widens her smile to expose more pearly teeth and replies with a noncommittal “don’t worry about it, Mrs. Jones, really” before heading upstairs to pull a cardigan on over her shoulders.

She’d been cold anyway, but had worn a light t-shirt because she’d liked the way it’s v-neck cut highlighted her collarbone. _No need for that now,_ she thinks as she returns to the kitchen in time to catch Jellybean stealing some cheese from her mother’s careful arrangement of appetizers on the counter.

The dinner goes by quickly enough, and Betty finds herself actually enjoying it, even with the pesky thoughts nagging at the back of her mind.

(He couldn’t have been _that_ exhausted from his midterms, could he? Is there another reason why he decided not to come?)

She shakes her head and forces herself to “live in the moment” (as the posters in the school psychologist’s office often reminded her from their spot on the wall across from her). Dr. Lask has told her to start by running through a mental checklist of the senses.

Smell: Her mom’s leftover lasagna dinner and the apple pie currently heating up in the oven.

Taste: The aforementioned lasagna’s tomato sauce lingering on her tongue.

Touch: The loose string from her cardigan that she’s wrapping and unwrapping around her pointer finger.

Hearing: The pop song blasting from Polly’s new cell phone (it had been the twelve year old’s birthday gift this year, and Betty’s only slightly jealous. She’d had the crappiest flip phone at twelve).

Sight: Polly and Jellybean dancing to said pop song on the living room carpet, hands linked together as they spin around the room.

Betty’s about to join them (in an effort to loosen up a bit), when a new, more upbeat song comes on and the girls separate to jump around and wave their arms. Polly twirls gracefully, but ends up stubbing her toe on the raised corner of the rug as she’s about to complete her three-hundred-sixty degree turn, and Betty watches as her sister falls—seemingly in slow motion—to the hardwood floor face first. Betty wills her feet to move, but they stay frozen to the spot; she wills her sister to protect her chin by setting her hands down first, but Polly’s arms stay glued to her side.

Blood gushes from where Polly’s split her chin open, coating the floor and seeping into the cracks between the floorboards. Jellybean begins screaming in that high pitch only young children (and, at times, fangirls) seem to be able to hit.

It’s Jellybean’s wails that seem to draw the adults into the room, and Alice is the first to reach the blonde girl crying on the floor.

Somehow, after the Cooper whirlwind has been swept out of the house and into an ER-bound car, Betty ends up on clean-up duty. The Joneses stay behind at the Cooper household, if only to keep an eye on Betty while her parents take care of her younger sister. Gladys comforts a distraught Jellybean in the dining room, where she can no longer see the tributaries of blood running along the grooves of the hardwood floors, and FP follows Betty into the kitchen. 

Rather than offer to help her with the dishes, he sets himself down on a stool at the kitchen island and rests his forearms on the dark wooden counter.

She has her back turned to him as she works the sponge into a few dinner plates, but he tries to make conversation anyway. “So, Betty,” he drawls out, “how do you like motorcycles?”

Betty likes FP, she really does, but sometimes—when he asks questions like that—she wonders how he could’ve had a son like Jughead. Jughead, whose intelligence somehow manages to be even more attractive than his looks.

She rolls her eyes, knowing he can’t see her, but still answers him honestly. “It would be cool to ride one someday, I guess.” Her fingernail scratches away at a bit of crusted cheese in a soaked pan, turning the water a murky orange from the grease. “But I still prefer my cars.” Since she was ten, Betty and her dad had spent nearly every Sunday fixing up an old car that Hal had bought at a relatively low price. Once they’d fully restored the vehicle (complete with a fresh coat of paint, Betty’s least favorite part), they would sell it around town and use the profits to buy another “hunk of junk,” as her mother liked to call them.

Cars had brought Betty and her father together more than anything else in their lives, and she cherished that time with him. FP had to know that. Not only had he been friends with her parents since before Betty was even born, but he’d also passed by the Coopers’ open garage on his own Harley many a Sunday morning, honking at them as he drove down the street. _So why’s he even asking?_

“Yeah, I know,” he replies with a soft smile that she can see even though she hasn’t turned around to face him. Oddly, she can’t help but feel like she’s just taken another midterm.

And, without even having studied, passed with flying colors.

 

~~~

 

On January 2nd, Betty wakes to hexagons of light dancing across her bedroom ceiling, morphing with the crescendoes and diminuendos of a silent hymn.

She realizes, as the light rays blind her from the window, that they’re reflections of sunlight off of the rolling disco ball discarded in the Andrewses’ side yard. Every New Years Eve, Fred insists on hosting Riverdale’s very own Ball Drop, and then promptly leaves the decorations to rot in his yard for a few days while he and Archie rid the house of all signs of over-the-top festivities.

Polly rushes into Betty’s bedroom from the hallway and jumps onto Betty’s bed, crushing her older sister’s legs underneath her. She’s excited; a brilliant grin nearly splits her face in two, revealing turquoise-and-silver-accented teeth. Polly had gotten braces a few months ago in order to lessen the gap between her two front teeth, and Betty remembers envying her younger sister as they walked into the orthodontist’s office that morning. She, unlike Polly, hadn’t been allowed to spend hundreds on her teeth, seeing as they were straight enough on their own to pass as acceptable.

Betty had held Polly’s hand at her side for the entire hour-long process, and by the end of it all she had come to the conclusion that she would miss the cute little gap between her younger sister’s teeth.

_It’s already starting to close up_ , Betty notices as Polly continues to grin up at her from her spot at the foot of the bed. When Polly begins to tug on her arm, shouting excitedly about their day together ( _“It’s only us, Betty! Can you believe it? We can do anything we want!”_ ), Betty runs her tongue over the small, rounded chip in the corner of her own front tooth. She might not have perfect teeth like Polly will, but she likes the way her teeth look. And feel. Loves it, even. Suddenly, she’s not so envious of her sister’s braces anymore.

Later that afternoon, Betty’s especially happy that her teeth aren’t imprisoned in a cage of metal when Polly refuses to eat any of the popcorn Betty has just made for their movie marathon ( _“It gets stuck in my braces too easily, Betty”)._

Their parents are out of town for a local-news conference in Pennsylvania, and they won’t be back until late tomorrow evening, so the girls have the house to themselves.

Thus far, they’ve indulged in pancakes topped with mountains of homemade whipped cream and chopped up strawberries for lunch, followed by a fashion show (with clothes and heels supplied from the high-end boutique Le Closét de Maman), and now a binge of all of the Cooper family’s favorite classic movies. First up is Grease, and as Betty slides the scuffed-up disk into the DVD player, Polly pulls a bowl of grapes from the fridge and carries it with her into the living room.

She flops backwards onto the throw pillows of the couch and pops a large grape into her mouth. After chewing a bit, she lets out a quiet, “Hey, Betty?”

“Yeah,” Betty replies absentmindedly as she juggles three different remotes in her hands, trying to figure out which one changes the TV’s input setting.

“I know that Grease is a classic. And I know that you really like it. Obviously. I do too.” She seems almost nervous at first, but her speech grows more coherent and fluid as she grows confident in her convictions. “But haven’t you ever thought about the message it puts out there into the world? The _messages_ , plural, it puts out there?”

“What do you mean?” Betty whirls around, TV settings long forgotten, to face her sister. Grease is one of her favorite movies. She’s pretty sure it’s one of everybody’s favorite movies. The nostalgia, the characters and their interactions, the _songs_. Just thinking about John Travolta in “Greased Lightning” makes her giddy.

“I mean, even if you can see past the weird side plot involving the TV presenter hitting on Marty and Eugene’s bullying being used for comedic relief, you have to admit the main, take-home message isn’t okay at all.” Polly casually pops another grape into her mouth, as if she hasn’t just dropped the biggest bomb on Betty’s bubble.

If Betty wasn’t so busy trying to mentally run through the movie in a matter of seconds, she might’ve stopped to think about when her twelve year old sister got to be so wise—got to learn phrases like “comedic relief” and understand just how creepy the TV presenter-and-Marty storyline is.

Suddenly, Betty’s internal movie screening slows down, playing the final scene in slow-motion as Polly continues. “In the end, Sandy just completely changes her looks and who she is for the man in her life. That’s straight up B-S. You shouldn’t have to change yourself for anybody, especially not the one person in your life who’s supposed to like you for _you_.”

The haze now clouding Betty’s mind doesn’t stop her legs from acting on autopilot and carrying her towards the DVD player underneath the TV screen. She hits the eject button, hard, and places the movie back in its case.

“Hey!” Polly shouts from behind her. “Just because it’s a problematic movie doesn’t mean I don’t want to watch it.”

But Betty doesn’t. She doesn’t want to watch it. She doesn’t want to see her reflection up on that sixty inch screen, changing herself for her very own Danny Zuko. _Is that what she’s been doing this whole year?_ Wearing different clothes, touching up her lipgloss in between classes, that was all for _him._ And not for _her._  

At times, when she feels like it, she’s happy to dress up a little bit more than usual. And that’s totally fine. But she isn’t going to let him be the reason she does anything anymore. Sure, she still likes Jughead Jones. But if he doesn’t like her for who she is, even without that ringing laugh and sparkle in her eyes, then that’s fine by her. She doesn’t care anymore.

 

~~~

 

Sometimes, Betty wishes she had a crush on Archie Andrews. Or Reggie Mantle. Or anybody that the rumor mill paid any attention to.

Because Betty doesn’t hear about Jughead’s new girlfriend until it’s too late. Because Betty doesn’t hear about Trula Twyst from Kevin, or Ethel. No. It’s straight from the horse’s mouth for her. Except that the horse doesn’t even have to tell her for her to figure it out.

It’s fourth period, and Mr. Tambley is out sick today. The sub, a rare diamond in the rough of substitute teachers, has graciously allowed her to step out of the room for a quick stop by the nurse’s office for some bandaids (she’s wearing new sandals now that the weather has finally decided to lighten up, and damn do they need some serious breaking in). She’s walking by the library en route to the bandaids when a round of giggles pulls her from her thoughts about what Essie colors she’d like to paint her toenails next.

Trula Twyst, a sophomore she’s only vaguely heard of before, stands between Jughead’s legs as he rests against the wall behind him, arms wrapped around his neck. She’s looking up at him because of the height difference, and Betty averts her eyes when he starts to bend down and wind his own arms around her tiny waist.

As she continues her trek down the halls, Betty thinks it’s a good thing she doesn’t care about him anymore, because if she did, she might have attributed the tightening feeling in her chest to something more than the slight heartburn from last night’s dinner at Pop’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> As I promised, this chapter was significantly longer than the prologue. They don't get much shorter than this, and the next one especially is going to be a doozy. But I hope you're excited for it!
> 
> I also said I would update on Monday at the latest, and although it's Tuesday where I live right now, I never went to bed so I'm going to count it as still being Monday. So another chapter delivered (kind of) on time! A teaser for Chapter 2: 10th Grade will be out on my tumblr in the next two or three days, so head on over there for that. Or just come on over and we can chat. It's @writeraquamarinara.
> 
> For anybody worried about Jughead and Trula, fret not. As I explained to some lovely commenters on the last chapter, they last about as long as Valerie and Archie did on the show. So, not long.
> 
> If you have any other questions, come talk to me down below or over on tumblr. Again, it's @writeraquamarinara. (I don't know how to embed a link into the name yet, but I'll get there eventually, I promise.)
> 
> Love,  
> Mari


	3. 10th Grade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> I'm back with another chapter, and it's actually (*gasp*) beta'd! Everybody can thank Dottie [@jedormis (cettevieestbien)] for fixing all my grammar/spelling mistakes and checking for verb tense mix-ups.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> PS: This chapter does feature Betty having a crush on someone other than Jug. I promise it's not that bad, but I just thought I'd give out a little warning.

Hair curled, nails painted, and brand-new backpack slung over her shoulders, Betty steps foot into Riverdale High a changed woman. She will  _ not _ be pining over Jughead Jones anymore (it doesn’t matter that Kevin heard that Trula dumped Jughead over the summer, making him a single—and highly-available—man). She’d spent the summer rediscovering herself—reading childhood favorites at the library, investigating the recurring case of “what kind of meat is in this?” at every sleep-away camp meal, and writing fluff pieces for  _ The Register _ (because they were the only types of stories her mother trusted her with) while Polly doodled at the desk beside her. It had been a long summer, but totally worth it. She remembers who she  _ was  _ now—who she had been before the infamous “Jughead Jones Debacle of 9th Grade”.

And she is  _ not  _ about to throw a whole summer’s worth of work out the window.

Betty clutches the paper detailing her new class schedule in one hand (even though she’s already memorized it by now), and last year’s lock in the other. The cool metal burns into her palm as she scans the row of lockers in front of her, all now painted a Creamsicle orange. It’s sunnier, brighter than the rose pinks and muted blues of past years, and she smiles. Seems like she isn’t the only one hoping for a fresh start.

Betty hooks her lock onto one of the few remaining lockers—Number 144—and then proceeds to dump most of her notebooks and folders onto the shelves inside it. Her first class of the day is Studio Art, and she won’t be needing many books for that.

The hallways are a mess, clogged with clumps of chattering students and the lost souls weaving through them, trying to find their class. Betty’s one of the last people to enter the art room, managing to slide in a few minutes before the bell.

She’d compared her schedule with most of her friends as soon as it had come in the mail, so she already knows that she’ll be pretty much on her own in this class. The only faces she recognizes, in fact, are those of the three students seated around a smaller table. It’s a square island in a sea of oval workbenches, and Betty navigates her way to the empty seat on the unoccupied side of the table.

“Is this seat taken?” she asks, if only out of politeness. She knows—hopes—that it’s not. 

“Depends if you’re going to sit in it or not,” Dilton Doiley replies without looking up from where he’s carving his initials into the wooden tabletop with a pocket knife. 

She drops her bag to the floor and pulls out the stool from under the table. “I am,” she tells him with a cool tone. She doesn’t need any attitude on the first day of school, and especially not from him.

“Great, then it’s taken,” he replies, still not shifting his gaze from the wood.

“Don’t mind him,” Ginger whispers from her spot across the table. “He’s just upset because he just barely failed the placement exam for 11th grade pre-calc.”

“By one point,” he adds on in a whine. “By one damn point, Betty! I deserve to be in that class more than most of those dimwit juniors do.”

Betty gapes at him. “You can’t be that upset. It just means you’ll ace math this year without even having to study.”

Trev, a boy she remembers from last year’s English Lit class, laughs from his spot to her left. “Of course he shouldn’t be upset. But he’s Dilton Doiley, known drama queen. Let him sulk for a bit and then he’ll be back to his usual self.” His words betray his actions as he sends a hard kick into the shins of the boy seated across from him.

“Hey!” Dilton shouts, affronted. “What was that for?”

“To snap you out of it. Now we’ve got the Dilton we all know and love: outraged and aggressive. Perfect.” Betty laughs at the smug look on Trev’s face, and he shoots her a wide grin. When Dilton turns back to his carving, now focused on rounding out the belly of the second D, Trev half-whispers to her, “How much trouble do you think he would be in if Mr. DeMar somehow found out who defaced his beloved workbench?”

Betty looks over at Dilton, who she knows is pretending not to eavesdrop on their conversation, and replies with an overly-serious, “a lot.”

“You willing to bet on it?”

“Sure,” she answers easily.

Trev nods quickly and pushes his stool back to stand up. “Well then, let’s find out.” He’s halfway to DeMar’s desk at the front of the room when Dilton rounds the table, hot on his heels, with an aggravated, “Oh, fuck you!”

“Mr. Doiley,” DeMar reprimands from where he’s reorganizing paint jars at the front of the room. “Save the decorative language for English class. The only kind of decorating I want to see, or  _ hear _ , in this room is that of artwork. Are we clear?”

Dilton only huffs, then stomps back to his seat. Trev returns shortly afterwards, having picked up a red marker and some paper from a supplies bin on his way over. He slides the materials across the table, and at Dilton’s questioning look, explains, “So you can focus on decorating art, and not your language, dear Dilton. You know I’m always looking out for you.”

Betty and Ginger both giggle when Dilton responds by ripping the piece of paper to bits.

She might not have known these people all too well before this morning, but Betty senses that it won’t be too hard to fit into their little friend group.

It feels nice to be in on the joke for once.

 

~~~

 

She’s not sure how it starts. If she had to pick, Betty would probably point all fingers to Archie and his guitar. But maybe Veronica  _ does _ have a genuine, and not boy-related, interest in the jazz band. What does she know?

Well, what does she know other than that she has heard Alicia Keys’ “If I Ain’t Got You” played one too many times today. It’s Wednesday afternoon, and the off-beat pitter-patter of the rain on the Pembrooke’s roof tiles isn’t helping her headache much. The girls are currently camped out in Veronica’s bedroom, and not Betty’s, because V had insisted on spending the entire evening practicing her jazzy rendition of the classic pop song instead of finishing her speech on the benefits of the legalization of marijuana for debate class. And, as the raven-haired beauty had pointed out with a hint of disapproval in her tone, the Coopers didn’t have a piano, or even a keyboard.

Neither had the Lodges, Betty had wanted to remind her best friend, until Veronica had all but begged her father to buy her one—an electric keyboard of the latest, most advanced model—about a week ago. Like with every other thing Veronica Lodge puts her mind to, she’s already mastered it in no time at all.

At least, Betty thinks she has. Veronica, surprisingly, isn’t so confident in her abilities. She hasn’t said as much, of course, but Betty can tell from the way her fingers shake with nerves as they flit across the keys.

“Ronnie,” she sighs as the brunette starts the song up again, humming along with the piano. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough? I understand that tomorrow’s audition is important to you.” How could she not? It’s all Veronica has talked about for the past week. “But I think the best thing you could do for yourself now is to get some rest. Give your fingers a break and take a step back. Maybe even a few deep breaths.”

Veronica’s fingers trail off around the second  _ Some people want it all _ , and she brings the palms of her hands to rest against the soft leather of the piano bench, but makes no other move.

“Come on, come join me on the bed. We both need a nap. Me for my head and you for your nerves.”

Veronica turns around at her words, and her look of surprise at Betty’s understanding morphs into a look of wonder. She shakes her head fondly. “How do you do that? Know what’s going on with me even without me telling you? Know exactly what I need, even when I don’t?”

“Don’t act like you aren’t the same way, Ron. We’re best friends. It comes with the territory, I guess.” She lets out a small yawn. “Now, either you come take a nap with me and leave that keyboard alone, or I’m going home to my own bed. It’s been a long week.”

Veronica laughs before jumping onto the empty half of her King-sized bed. “It’s only Wednesday, B.” 

“So?” The blonde closes her eyes against the orange light of sunset filtering in through Veronica’s large windows. “Just means there’s still time for it to get longer,” she mumbles into her pillow.

Veronica threads the fingers of her left hand into those of Betty’s right and squeezes, hard. “Thank you, B.”

Betty doesn’t respond, and Veronica doesn’t let go of her hand.

It’s Betty who has to pry her fingers from Veronica’s vice grip when she wakes up a half-hour later. Luckily, it’s still early enough that Alice Cooper hasn’t blown up her phone with worried texts and voicemails. She leaves a small note for when Veronica wakes up— _Don’t worry, you’re going to kill it! I’ll see you before auditions tomorrow. Have to leave before Mom sends out a search party. -B_ on a purple post-it note.

The rain hasn’t let up since last night, and Betty has to vigorously shake out her soaked umbrella once she steps inside the school’s front doors the next morning. The halls are empty except for a few teachers milling about, wandering from department office to classroom and back again. Dilton’s the only student Betty can see as she stares down the main hallway, his back against a locker as he reads the new nature book he had raved about while slapping some blue acrylic paint onto a blank canvas during art yesterday (the fact that Betty can’t even remember its name says a lot about her interest in  _ that _ particular conversation).

A loud, reverberating crash can be heard through the open doors of the auditorium, where Betty knows the musicians are setting up their instruments for their auditions. It’s followed by a “Shit!” and Betty giggles as she walks through the doorway and steps onto the carpeted walkway that leads from the back row of seats all the way to the stage. The dark blue curtains are pulled to either side of the stage, revealing randomly-placed sets from old musicals and shows, and an intricate system of lights and pulleys.

The spotlight angled from the back of the auditorium seems perfectly centered on Veronica as she untangles the cords of her keyboard on stage. Less-illuminated figures mill about, each one focused on his or her individual instrument. Adam Chen tunes his electric violin at the edge of the stage, and the occasional squeak can be heard from a clarinet player practicing behind the bunched-up curtains.

As Betty approaches her best friend, she notices that there are only two people sitting in the plush chairs of the audience’s seats—the two remaining members of the Riverdale High Jazz Band after last year’s seniors graduated. One wears an unmistakable beanie, and the other’s hair glints even more orange under the yellow auditorium lights than normal.

She barely glances at either of them as she climbs up the stairs at the side of the stage, and Veronica turns around as she hears her coming. “Oh, B, the note was so lovely!” She waves it around in the air, a purple streak following her hand. “I kept reading and rereading it the whole ride to school to help with my nerves.” Her voice softens and she quickly pulls Betty into a tight hug, digging her nails into the backs of Betty’s shoulders. “Thank you,” she whispers past Betty’s ear.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Betty tells her just as softly as she pulls back from Veronica’s grip. “Now, I’m going to go sit in one of those chairs,” she points to where she knows the back row of seats to be, even though she can’t see it anymore because of the blinding spotlights, “and I’m going to listen to the best damn rendition of ‘If I Ain’t Got You’ I’ve ever heard. Alright?”

Veronica nods, now more excited than nervous, and Betty makes her way back down the stairs. She grips the railing and turns her head slightly back towards her friend. “Remember: You’re Veronica Lodge. You have places to be, people to see, and ass to kick.” Veronica laughs, remembering the words of advice she had given her friend nearly a year ago.

After Veronica’s set, which she plays with more grace and passion than Betty has ever seen, the blonde stands from her spot in the back of the auditorium and hoots, hollers, and wolf-whistles until her lungs burn. She ignores the looks her next-door neighbor and his best friend shoot her as they turn around in their seats; the embarrassment of the situation is worth it when she sees the beaming look on Veronica’s face. It almost rivals the one that appears when Jughead announces the two newest members of this year’s jazz band.

 

~~~

 

The Coopers never went away for Thanksgiving. Betty has never met either sets of grandparents, her father’s parents having both died in a car accident years before her birth and her mother’s family supposedly living in a cabin in the woods somewhere.

Every year, Alice cooks a typical turkey dinner for four, leaving Betty in charge of the day’s activities. They ranged from putting on Thanksgiving Day plays to coloring in black-and-white turkeys printed out onto paper placemats, but her all time favorite is ‘The Burning’, as she likes to call it. After dinner, everyone writes what they’re thankful for onto a small sheet of paper and then burn it in the small fire-pit out in the Coopers’ backyard.

Riverdale is always submerged in a deep-freeze by Thanksgiving, and the family huddles around the fire, hats over ears and mittens protecting fingers from the bitter chill. And even though she still shivers in her winter boots, Betty has never felt so warm. It’s the one day of the year (maybe other than Christmas), where she really feels her family come together.  

This is the first year that she has to worry about activities involving somebody other than the four members of the Cooper household (five, if she counts Caramel). Well, not somebody, but rather something—a dog. The Joneses had left for Toledo last night in order to spend Thanksgiving with Gladys’ family. But there had been no room for Hotdog in their plans—or car—and so the poor thing had been left behind.

According to her mother, that’s where Betty and Polly step in. They’re currently standing outside the navy blue front door of a home Betty remembers clearly from her childhood, a sheepdog barking at them from his vantage point behind the living room window.

Polly wiggles the key inside the lock for a bit and then kicks the door open, laughing as Hotdog launches himself onto her. “Hi boy! Do you remember me?” she asks with a bright smile, oddly seeming to expect an actual reply.

Betty’s too lost in her thoughts to think about the fluffy dog scratching at her jeans. She’s in  _ his  _ house. It looks exactly the same as her mind had remembered it, except for the new pile of shoes thrown into the bottom of an open coat closet, the drumsticks she spots on the coffee table, and the Grand Theft Auto game case that replaces Call of Duty in its spot by the Xbox.

At the sharp click of a leash, Betty turns to look at Polly, who’s crouching down to be the same height as the sheepdog. “You ready, Betty?” she asks her sister before coaxing the dog out the door. She throws Betty the keys, but misses, and they clatter to the ground. With a shrug, she turns around and bounds down the path to the sidewalk. “Lock the door behind yourself, okay? Nobody’s getting robbed on our watch.”

After turning the lock and pocketing the key, Betty runs to catch up with her sister. Polly’s somehow managed to make it halfway down the block already, and Betty’s breathless by the time she slides in next to her.

“Don’t you wish we had a dog, Betty?”

“We have Caramel, Polls. And she’s enough to take care of on her own. We don’t need a dog to add to the list.” Polly pouts and lets out a small breath, so Betty adds a quick, “and I’m sure if you really wanted, Jellybean and Jughead wouldn’t mind letting you have him for a bit.”

That flips the edges of Polly’s frown back up, and it’s as if the sun has suddenly come out again, bathing her in rays of sunshine. “Ah, Jughead. What’s up with him this year?”

“How should I know?” Betty retorts, a bit too quickly.

“Because you literally talked about him every dang day last year. You were all ‘Jughead this, and Jughead that’ to the point where I had to fall asleep with headphones in my ears every night,” Polly explains with an exasperated eye roll.

“I don’t think I ever once mentioned Jughead to you.” What was Polly talking about?  _ “Jughead this, and Jughead that”? _ Unless…

“Oh, you didn’t have to. The walls are thin, you know?” And with that, Polly’s off, pulled behind Hotdog, who runs to chase after a squirrel in a neighboring yard.

Betty stops in her tracks, dumbfounded. She doesn’t even try to go after her sister for further explanation. She already knows.  _ The walls are thin, Betty, didn’t you know? _ No, Betty hadn’t known. Or, she had, but she hadn’t exactly thought about it too much.

And if Polly had been able to hear her and Veronica’s conversations from her bedroom, then her mother, who often lurked in the hallway…Betty doesn’t even want to finish the thought. She already knows where it’s going.

 

~~~

 

That night, Betty answers Veronica’s call with an urgent expression on her face. “V, we have to talk.”

Veronica sits back, surprised, and then arches an eyebrow. “About what?”

“I think my mom’s been listening in on us. If not purposely, then at least accidentally.”

The raven-haired beauty’s features relax, and then she bends forwards, laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Just that,” she pauses to let out a giggle, “you looked so serious. And I thought it was going to be some world-ending thing. But you’re just worried about your mom.” She starts laughing again, but harder.

“Hey. Be serious. I’m not kidding.”

“Fine, fine. So what do you suppose we do about it? Wipe her memory, then stop talking to each other so she doesn’t hear anything ever again?” The smile on her best friend’s face, and the sarcasm laced in her words, tells Betty that Veronica still hasn’t exactly grasped the seriousness of the situation. 

“No,  _ no. _ But maybe we can make sure she doesn’t know who we’re talking about from now on.”

“So, like, code names?”

“Yes, that’s it! Code names. God, Ron, you’re a genius.”

Veronica snorts at that, but goes along with it all the same. “Okay, so let’s come up with some names. Starting with Archie.”

Betty wants to ask  _ why Archie? _ but she doesn’t push it. “What about something to do with his hair? That’s a pretty special feature of his, and we can do a lot with it: ginger, carrot, orange.”

Veronica shakes her head in disgust. “That’s a list of roots and fruits, not names.”

“Hey, Ginger’s a name!”

“Yeah, one that’s already taken. So we can’t use it. I won’t know which Ginger we’re talking about.”

Valid point. A nearly infinite silence seems to stretch between the two girls, between the two sides of town where their screens are located. There’s no chirping, or rustling, or crinkling from outside of Betty’s bedroom window, and the rest of her family should be asleep by now.

But then the golden thread of serenity snaps, and Betty’s the one to cut it. “What about Olaf?!”

Veronica stares at her blankly, and then questions, “Like the snowman?”, with mild disgust.

“Think about it; it works so well,” Betty pushes. “He’s got a carrot for a nose, and the name is rare enough that we won’t be able to find another Olaf to talk about.”

Betty holds her breath, almost certain Veronica’s going to shut her down, but then she smooths her eyebrows out with carefully manicured fingers, and asks, “So Jughead…is he Kristoff or Sven?”

“Elsa, obviously,” the blonde replies almost immediately, as if she’d already been planning it out in her head. At Veronica’s questioning look, she shrugs her shoulders and elaborates. “You know, the isolated ice queen with a penchant for the dramatics.” She means the words to have some bite to them, but—well, she’s always had a bit of a soft spot for Elsa. The misunderstood older sister. Maybe she sees herself in that too.

 

~~~

 

Betty’s drawing the drapes across the back row of windows (the morning sun’s reflecting off of the fresh coat of snow, and the lighting in the art room has become too bright to sketch anything at all), when Dilton storms in, papers sticking out of his open backpack, winter scarf hanging heavily around his neck.

He slams a wrinkled paper on their little table, right under Trev’s nose, and stands back to watch as everyone tries to read what it says. Trev seems to be the first one to understand what Dilton’s getting at. “Wow, a 97, huh. On the chem test. That’s great.”

“Great!?” Dilton exclaims, finally taking his seat. “That’s better than great. It’s  _ impressive. _ When I asked her after school yesterday, Paley told me that only one student got above a 95, and therefore, using those little brains of ours,” he taps his temple for emphasis, “we can deduce that I did better than everyone else in the class.”

“That’s great, Dilton,” Betty tells him, but the smug look on his face really rubs her the wrong way, so she doesn’t really mean it. She quickly catches Trev’s eye before Mr. DeMar redirects the class’ attention to the Smartboard, and she nods at the understanding that passes between them.  _ This kid’s going down. _

Every student at Riverdale High must graduate having taken at least one art course, and it’s no secret to anybody (including, and especially, Mr. DeMar) that Studio Art is Dilton’s way of fulfilling that requirement. So, when he leaves the room without asking to take his daily bathroom break (which lasts fifteen minutes and results in him returning with breakfast from the cafeteria), nobody even bats an eye. But Trev takes the opportunity, and whispers to Betty, “you ever seen  _ The Office _ ?”

“Who hasn’t?” she fires back. 

That makes him smile, and he nods. “I know right? Anyway, you know when Jim convinces Dwight that he can move objects with his mind?” Betty knows exactly where he’s going with this, and nods excitedly. The grin that splits his face in response makes her even more excited. “Well, we can’t let him pick what to move, because that just wouldn’t work. So I was thinking you could mention the jars of paintbrushes on the counter by DeMar’s desk…” Ah, yes. DeMar—the third and most important piece of the prank puzzle.

“Got it,” she tells Trev, and the two of them push their seats back to get up. Ginger ignores them and continues to paint with watercolors. As Trev begins to wrap a thin string around the jars, Betty heads over to talk to their teacher. “Hey, Mr. DeMar, have you ever seen the  _ The Office? _ ”

When Dilton returns to the table, last bite of pancake stuffing his cheeks, his three seat partners are hard at work.

Trev shapes a chunk of clay into a small pinch-pot, and looks up to see Dilton watching him. “Hey, Dil. Want to know something cool?”

Dilton swallows the pancake, and bites out a bored, “Sure”.

“I can move things with my mind.”

“Funny joke, Trev,” Dilton scoffs.

“No, seriously. He can,” Betty affirms. She’s just finished outlining a flamingo in pencil on watercolor paper, and she points to the brush in Ginger’s hands. “Where’d you get that, Ginger?”

“Oh, this?” Ginger points to the stringed-up row of jars, and the glint in Trev’s eyes brightens as Dilton’s eyes follow her movements. “Over there.”

“Perfect, thanks. I’ll go grab one.”

Betty’s about to stand up, when Dilton interrupts her. “No, Betty, let Mister Telekinesis over here get one for you.”

“Alright,” she says, and Trev turns to face DeMar, sending him a small wink.

“I might be a little rusty, Dil, but I’ll do my best.” He narrows his eyes, bringing his fingers to massage his temples, and the jars slowly begin to shake. The glass slides, centimeter by centimeter, until the first mason jar is nearly tipping over the edge of the counter. Dilton yells out, “Stop!”, and Trev drops his hands into his lap, and the movement stills.

“Mr. Doiley, I will not have you screaming in my classroom, you hear me? Now, what is the matter?” DeMar asks, and Betty can see the little laugh threatening to escape his lips. Luckily, he keeps his features stone-cold and serious.

“Nothing,” Dilton replies, unable to say much else. He’s quite literally speechless. 

Trev turns back around to face his friend. “How’s  _ that _ for impressive, dear Dilton?”

Betty just watches the string swing back and forth by DeMar’s desk for the rest of the period.

 

~~~

 

For as much as she and Trev give Dilton a hard time in art class, Betty thinks that he isn’t  _ so _ bad.

He’d noticed she was lonely (as Veronica had jazz band practice every day at lunch now, and Ethel was making up a test for Spanish class), and had decided to sit with her during lunch today. That’s more than she can say for anybody else. 

Sure she’s had to listen to him rant about the fingerprinting badge he very nearly earned this weekend for twenty-five minutes now ( _ “I just couldn’t tell the difference between a whorl and a loop print, so Fitz failed me. Like, sue me, right? They’re acting as if fingerprinting were this super important, essential skill for us to have. As if there were a mass-murderer running around town and Riverdale’s only hope was a group of meddling kids.” _ ), but at least that’s better than sitting all alone. The conversation isn’t super interesting, or really interesting  _ at all _ , but Betty still enjoys the company.

 

~~~

 

Later that day, Betty finds out that Dilton’s long-winded rant was more than just a casual conversation between friends. He’d been attempting to flirt, according to Ethel.

She and Betty are sitting next to each other, clicking away at their own respective computers in the computer lab that Mrs. Warner had booked for her European History students—they’re meant to be searching for valid primary sources to include in this week’s research paper on the Spanish-American War—when Ethel suddenly stills her hand over the mouse and turns to the blonde on her right. “Hey, Betty, I know you’re still kind of hung up on Jug,” she trails off, averting her eyes down to the keyboard. Betty scoffs at that.  _ No she isn’t.  _ “But is there anyone else you might like?”

Betty’s immediate reaction is to say no, but when she stops to think about it, is there? The only guy that comes to mind as a possible crush is Trev, and yeah, he makes her laugh, and smile, and she enjoys spending time with him, plotting with him,…and maybe she does like Trev. He’s the nicest guy she’s ever really talked to. “Maybe Trev, I guess.”

A soft smile grows on Ethel’s face, and she lets out a nearly silent, “Okay” as she starts shoving notebooks into her bag—the bell’s about to ring. Betty stops her by reaching to place her palm on Ethel’s forearm as a thought crosses her mind. “Why? Why do you want to know?”

Ethel leans in and whispers, “I’m not supposed to tell you this, but Dilton’s been asking around. He wants to know if he has a shot with you, Betty. He likes you. You know, he asked me if he could sit with you alone at lunch today, so that you could talk. And I let him.” Betty’s eyes widen in realization. Ethel hadn’t been ‘making up a test’--she’d been helping him. “But now he wants to know how  _ you _ feel. Because he’s worried that you might reject him for someone else. For Trev.” Ethel shrugs. “And I guess he’s top of the class for a reason—the dude’s smart.” She pulls back and hauls her heavy backpack onto her shoulders. “Anyway, I’ve got to go, Betty. See you around?”

Betty only replies with a small hum. Her mind’s still stuck, buffering. Dilton Doiley likes Betty Cooper.  _ What? _

 

_ ~~~ _

 

Betty is always the last person to leave every single one of her classes, meticulously placing notebooks and pens into their rightful spots in her backpack and triple-checking that she hasn’t forgotten to grab anything on her way out.

That’s why, by the time she reaches her locker after school, the halls are typically empty except for a few wandering souls. Today, however, when Betty rounds the corner onto the hall lined with creamsicle orange lockers, she’s met with a slight commotion (as if her day hadn’t been eventful enough).

Dilton and Ethel are whisper-arguing about something right in front of Locker 144--Betty’s. And it’s not a coincidence. As soon as Dilton sees her approach, he cuts Ethel off with a wave of the hand, and turns towards the blonde girl.

Anxiety suddenly fills her stomach. She doesn’t want to have to deal with this right now. But maybe,  _ maybe _ , Ethel has already explained the Trev situation to Dilton, and he isn’t about to ask her--

“Hello, Betty, do you happen to be free tomorrow afternoon?” He questions bluntly, and okay, so maybe Ethel  _ hasn’t _ explained the Trev situation to Dilton.

Luckily, Betty doesn’t have to come up with an excuse to get out of this one. “Tomorrow I actually have a dentist appointment after school,” she tells him.

“Ah, yes, gum health is rather important. But what about the day after that?” he pushes, and now Betty really has to rack her brain for an excuse.

“Betty and I have to work on our research papers that day, Dilton,” Ethel supplies for her, obviously irritated with him. Her arms are crossed and her left foot lightly taps against the tile floors.

“Oh, for Warner? That’s understandable.” He seems to be mulling something over in his head, fingers scratching idly behind his ear, and then he asks, “What about the day after that?”

Man, Betty just wants to punch him now. The kid can not take a fucking hint. She turns her head slightly to catch Ethel’s eye, and the girls nod together.

“I’m afraid no can do, Dilton,” Betty says in an overly cheery tone, bright smile plastered onto her face. “You see, I’m not going to be available for a very long time. Forever, to be exact.”

“Do we have to spell it out for you? She’s. Not. Interested.” Ethel punctuates every word with an eye roll. “That’s what I was trying to tell you earlier, but you’re a stubborn idiot who won’t listen to anybody.”

Dilton scoffs, clearly upset, and crosses his arms. “Fine. I get it. You two have fun on your research paper date, then.” He turns around hurriedly, backpack swinging out far enough to nearly smack Betty in the face, and stomps off down the hall.

Ethel laughs out a disbelieving, “The nerve of that kid. Sorry I couldn’t stop him earlier, Betty,” and then bids the blonde a good afternoon as she heads in the direction of her own locker.

A few minutes later, when Betty turns towards the exit of the school to begin her walk home, Trev shows up at her side.

“Lollipop?” he offers her a Strawberry Dum Dum, and she takes it gratefully. Once she’s unwrapped the candy and about to pop it in her mouth, she pauses to shoot him a questioning look. “We played jeopardy in French to review for tomorrow’s test. Winner got a lollipop,” he offers in reply, shrugging, “and Strawberry’s my least favorite flavor.”

“What?!” Betty exclaims, almost outraged. “That’s my favorite.”

“I’m more of a Root Beer man myself.” He shrugs again.  _ Yuck. Root Beer.  _ Trev laughs at the disgusted look on Betty’s face. “Hey, it’s not my fault that’s what I like. We can’t all be perfect like you, Betty Cooper.”

 

~~~

 

There had been whispers of a fire drill floating through the halls all morning, but Betty had regarded them with some skepticism. Surely Weatherbee wouldn’t order an evacuation of the building on the coldest day of the year. Right?

Wrong. She hadn’t been able to grab her coat from her locker, having been pushed outside by a crowd of agitated and rowdy freshman, and now she’s shivering under the winter sun. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her body, and her face is bent towards the ground in order to protect her watery eyes from the biting breeze.

“B!” she hears before a heavy coat is placed around her shoulders. “You shouldn’t be out here without a coat,” her best friend scolds from besides her.

“Tell that to Weatherbee,” Betty mumbles.

A teacher from one of the 9th grade classes turns around to shush the two girls, as fire drills are meant to be silent affairs, but they ignore her.

Veronica whips out a bag of baby carrots from under her own coat (why Veronica had come outside with two winter jackets, and not just one, Betty does not know), and offers them to her friend. Betty’s numb fingers pick out the smallest one in the ziplock bag, and she scarfs it down before returning her hand to its spot in the coat’s pocket. She’d barely gotten to eat her lunch before the alarm had rang out, so Betty’s grateful for the food.

“I know you don’t like listening to my Jughead stories, but today was just so funny that I have to tell you, B.” Betty doesn’t even try to stop her; when Veronica’s made up her mind about something, there’s no changing it. And if the bright smile on V’s face is anything to go by, the story might just be enough to take Betty’s mind off of the numbing cold. “Archie was tuning his guitar, sitting on the drum kit stool, and Jughead came up behind him. Obviously,” she rolls her eyes dramatically, “he was eating some fries from the caf. How that boy isn’t four-hundred pounds already, I’ll never understand, but he got a bit annoyed at Archie for taking his seat.”

She starts giggling now, uncontrollably, and the teacher sends them both another death glare. Betty just glares back. It’s not their fault they’re stuck out here in this miserable cold; the least she can do is let them have their fun.

Veronica manages to start speaking again, and continues, “And—and he just started throwing the fries, one by one, at Archie’s head. He never missed. Not once! And from all the way across the room, too. Pretty impressive if you ask me. Anyway, Archie didn’t notice until there was a huge splotch of fry-grease on the back of his neck, and by then it was too late. There were fries in his hair, too, and he started to pick out random pieces.”

Betty smiles at the mental image. She wishes she’d been there to see it herself.

“And the best part is, Jughead just kept going. So Archie started whining out to ‘stop’,” Veronica mimics his voice, drawing out the ‘o’ of the word until it almost sounds like ‘staaaahp’, “and Reggie just sat there watching them. Like, he didn’t even do anything to help Archie! Just sat there shaking his head.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He said, and I repeat, ‘Never thought I was joining the circus when I auditioned back in October. And a shit one at that—the monkeys aren’t even trained.’ with the most unamused face I have ever seen.”

Both girls burst out laughing at that, Veronica doubled over and clutching her stomach at the memory. This time, the attention-grabbing ring of the bell ensures that Betty doesn’t have to fight off any more dirty looks. 

 

~~~

 

When Betty walks into class one cold January morning, Ginger—standing right by the door—shoves a piece of paper into her arms. Betty reads the title at the top of the page (“Sophomore Survey”) and groans. Every grade has to answer the questions during a free period or elective class and turn the slip of paper in to the front office by the end of the school day so that the yearbook kids can compile the data into fun charts and graphs.

They’re horrible questions—ones that demand just as horrible answers—but Betty doesn’t say a word. Ginger’s the head of the yearbook committee, and Betty doesn’t feel like offending anyone this early in the morning.

Of course, Dilton has no qualms about such things, so when he reaches the fourth question while they’re all busy filling out the survey, he drops his pen to the table with a particularly exasperated sigh. He stares at the girl sitting next to him for a beat before whining, “Ginger, what  _ are  _ these questions? Surely you can’t think they’re decent?”

Ginger huffs and crosses her arms across her chest, dropping her own pen onto the table in front of her. “And what if I do, Dilton?” She glares at him. “What if I really am _ that _ interested in knowing what animal is the most common type of pet amongst the sophomore class? Or what local joint is Riverdale High’s favorite?”

Betty agrees with Dilton—the questions are inane and superficial, to put it lightly—but, then again, this is the yearbook. Not  _ The New York Times. _ They don’t have to ask all the hard-hitting questions. And she feels bad for the girl, so Betty joins the conversation. “I, for one, love Pop’s. Typical, I know, but you just can’t beat his shakes.”

Trev gapes at her as if a third eye has suddenly appeared on her forehead, and he sputters out, “What about Poppy’s Cafe? It’s definitely the best place around town. The proof is in the pudding—or rather, the grilled cheese.”

Betty giggles at his dramatics and shrugs her shoulders. “I’ve never been.”

Trev looks even more outraged than before, and he picks his jaw up from the floor in order to tell her that he’ll have to take her there sometime. 

When she replies with a bright smile and an excited, “it’s a date,” Betty pretends not to notice the look on Dilton’s face.

 

~~~

 

They settle on meeting each other outside of Poppy’s at twelve on the dot for lunch on Saturday. The only person Betty tells is Veronica, if only so that when Alice Cooper calls the Pembrooke asking for her daughter, Veronica can reply with a rehearsed “Betty just went to the bathroom before we sit down for lunch. I’ll tell her you called, though!”

(To say that Veronica had squealed enough to temporarily deafen Betty in both ears when she first found out about her friend’s date would be a grand understatement.)

Trev holds the glass door open for her, and when he gestures Betty inside, she’s struck by just how  _ quaint _ the place is. A baby blue counter takes up most of the space in front of her, little circular stools tucked in next to it. Behind the counter, a graying blonde woman faces the many stoves, buttering up some bread. Above her head, haphazardly-hung inspirational and feminist massages litter the floral wallpaper. Betty smiles at that. Her favorite has to be, “Everyone belongs in the kitchen. That’s where the goddamn food is.”

Trev guides Betty to sit on a plush bar stool, and her legs swing as she swivels back and forth out of nerves. It seems a better way to fidget than to unravel her sweater by pulling at its loose string.

When the woman turns around, Betty notices a small, cursive  _ Poppy _ stitched into her pink-striped apron. She passes them cups full to the brim with ice cold water (and an accompanying straw, which Betty places back in the bin. She’s read far too many articles about straws and sea turtles to be able to use them without feeling any lingering guilt) and asks them what they’d like with a toothy smile.

Both Betty and Trev order the classic grilled cheese, with tomato and basil, and they chew through their sandwiches with barely a sound made between them. The air seems overly tense, laden with the burden of expectations. Though Betty knows she should make an effort to start some kind of conversation, she’s too nervous to do anything other than eat her greasy food with polite manners.

Eventually, Trev gives in and asks her how she likes the food, but Betty only manages to smile around a bite of grilled cheese in response. It’s good, sure, but she still wishes she were at Pop’s instead, dunking all her fries into a tall glass of vanilla milkshake.

When the bill arrives, Betty lets Trev pay without putting up a fight (she knows she should, but doesn’t have enough energy to do so. Betty feels completely drained. And she’d been so excited about the date, too). Trev takes her hand as they step outside onto the sidewalk, bell ringing behind them as the door shuts. It’s sounds kind of like Pop’s, but not quite exactly the same. Screechier, and not right at all.

They pass by the small public park with far too many benches to count, and Trev suddenly stops in the middle of the sidewalk to bend down and tie his shoelaces (even though Betty’s pretty sure they’d been double-knotted and perfectly fine). When he rises back up to his regular height again, this time with his face much closer to hers, he whispers, “Have I told you yet that you look beautiful today, Betty? Because you do.”

She shakes her head quickly to answer his question, but also to move her lips from where he’d been eyeing them before when his head leans closer to hers. Too close. He ends up missing her lips entirely, leaving a sloppy kiss on her left cheek, and Betty begins to walk again. With purpose, this time.

She doesn’t want to be with him anymore. The whole date has been a disaster, full of unnecessarily awkward silences and jerky movements that she has to attribute to more than her inexperience. They’d worked so much better when they had been just friends chatting away in an art room, and not two fumbling teens on a date.

When they come across Ronnie’s building, Betty doesn’t even think twice and tells him to drop her off there. Luckily, as he’s walking backwards away from her spot at the entrance to the Pembrooke, Trev gives her a small smile and wave goodbye, rather than try for another kiss. 

Smithers lets her into the building as soon as she buzzes up to the penthouse, and—in a matter of what seems to last as long as a few seconds and simultaneously many hours—Betty’s sprawled out on the Lodges’ white leather couch, face buried into a pillow. Veronica, who’s sipping a mimosa while scrolling through Instagram at the dining room table, raises an eyebrow.

“I take it that didn’t go too well?”

Betty pulls herself up to sit and sighs. Her palms lay flat against the cool of the leather, grounding her a bit. “It was fine.”

“Just fine?” Veronica abandons her mimosa and sets herself down next to Betty, combing her fingers through the ends of the blonde’s ponytail.

“Not horribly bad, but not good either. I didn’t even let him kiss me, V,” Betty groans as she leans her head back further into Veronica’s fingers. There had always been something soothing about having someone else brush through her hair.

“First of all, B,” Veronica answers with a firm tone, “you don’t owe Trev, or any other guy, anything. At all. So if you didn’t want to kiss him, that’s perfectly fine.” She turns Betty around to face her now, staring into her muted green eyes. “Now, what’s not fine is the gloomy look on your face. A good date leaves you feeling happy, excited for the next one. Obviously, this wasn’t a  _ good _ date.”

“No, I guess not.” Betty mulls over Veronica’s words. She isn’t excited at all. In fact, she feels the complete opposite of excited. Dread sits low in her belly, shifting around and causing some stomach acid to bubble up her throat. “But how do I tell Trev that? That I just want to go back to being friends? I don’t even know what he wants us to be, and I don’t want to assume, but I need to make sure he knows that this  _ thing  _ between us isn’t going any further.”

“So tell him that,” Veronica responds as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. “You wouldn’t be happy being more than friends with him, and that’s what’s important. Shoot him a quick text.” At Betty’s affronted look, Veronica rolls her eyes. “If it’s easier to chat through some phone screens than break the news in person, then text is the best way to go. And you can be gentle with him, if you really must.”

Veronica’s suggestion does seem to be the best option, so Betty slips her cellphone out of the pocket of her coat and shoots him a quick “I’m sorry, but I think we’re better off as friends.” In an effort to ignore the guilt that comes with texting him her very own version of the classic “it’s not you, it’s me,” she deletes their entire text conversation from her phone as soon as the message has been delivered.

Veronica returns from her journey to the kitchen with two more mimosas in her hands and pushes one towards Betty. “To being single!” she cheers before knocking back the fruity drink. Betty follows suit.

 

~~~

 

The following week had been hell. Trev hadn’t responded to her text, and she’d been a ball of nerves walking into art class on Monday morning, hands shaking from more than the cold.

Luckily, he hadn’t seemed angry at her, but he wasn’t his usual self either. He never once looked in her direction, and his usual pranks on Dilton failed to bring a smile to his face.

Betty thinks that if she hadn’t been paying so close attention, she probably wouldn’t have noticed. Dilton and Ginger certainly hadn’t. But she had. And it was making her upset.

She missed their easy friendship from before. How he would make her laugh every morning, starting her day off right. Now, her mornings were filled with uneasy silences that stretched between them when Dilton was out for his daily bathroom trip and Ginger was too focused on her pottery decorating to notice. 

This morning had been especially horrible. She’d been late to school because her mother’s station wagon wouldn’t start up in the freezing hours of early morning and Polly had accidentally let Caramel out of the house on her way out the door. The Cooper family had subsequently spent a solid fifteen minutes chasing the cat around the backyard and back inside.

DeMar had shot her a questioning look when she had walked in a few minutes before the bell rang, cheeks flushed bright red and nose running, but had thankfully decided to let it slide.

If she’d walked into the room in such a state on any given day before this week, she’s sure that Trev would’ve melted the frown off her face within seconds. Instead, he seemed almost as cold as the snowy air, keeping his distance from her and directing all questions about the upcoming chem test to Ginger.

She’d been in such a foul mood for the rest of the day that Veronica had ordered her home as soon as the last bell had rung.

“Alright, B,” the raven-haired beauty addresses her as she paces around Betty’s overwhelmingly pink bedroom, “I’ve had to watch you sulk around all week, and I’ve had enough of it. It’s Friday night, you’re young and reckless. You should be out there, doing more than lying curled up into a ball under the duvet.”

“I am not letting you drag me out to a party tonight, V,” Betty groans into her pillow. Her bones ache and even the thought of moving out of this position exhausts her.

The flecks of gold in Veronica’s eyes seem to sparkle under the dim lights. “Nobody ever said anything about a party, B. But what about dinner and a movie?”

 

~~~

 

Most of the time, Veronica really does care for her best friend. To the point where she would go quote-unquote “full dark no stars” in a snap as soon as Betty asked her to.

But the blonde should have known that there were less-than-pure reasons for their Drive-In escapade. As soon as the two girls had pulled up to the Twilight’s lot in Veronica’s car, a redheaded boy had shown up outside the brunette’s window.

“Oh, Archiekins. What a surprise! It’s so nice to see you!” she’d greeted with an overly cheery tone, and Betty had groaned. Of course they had planned it all out.

Archie and Veronica had taken it upon themselves to buy food and drinks for the group approximately twenty-two minutes ago, and Betty has already come to terms with the fact that she isn’t going to be getting her Twizzlers any time soon. She’s sitting in the bed of Archie’s pickup truck, snuggled up next to a pig-tailed Jellybean--Betty had found her bundled up in a coat and crown beanie (Jughead’s) and wrapped up in an immense amount of knitted quilts, enraptured by the black and white movie on the big screen. Apparently Archie was meant to be babysitting her for Jughead while he manned the projection booth.

The two girls barely speak, both content to get lost in the world of  _ To Kill a Mockingbird,  _ until Betty feels a little elbow digging into her side. She turns towards Jellybean, but the little girl still has her gaze fixed on the screen, eyes wide with wonder. “Don’t you love how they’re all birds?” she asks under her breath. Betty almost doesn’t catch it.

“What?”

“Their names. They’re all birds.”

Yes, she supposes they are. Somehow, she’d never noticed that when she had read the novel in eighth grade. Betty’s about to ask her why that’s such an important detail, but then Jellybean’s no longer by her side, now running towards the open door of the projection booth. Jughead has suddenly emerged--beanie-less--and his hair sticks out on all sides. Somehow, it still looks good.

Betty watches Jellybean run into his arms, squealing when he picks her up off the ground and settles her over his shoulders. “Juggie!” she shrieks, pulling at his hair when he pretends to drop her. His own laugh rumbles through the lot of parked cars, and then they’re heading towards the concessions stand--apparently he’s got the film reels running smoothly enough on their own now that he can afford a bit of a break.

Once the red-and-white striped bag of popcorn is clutched between Jellybean’s tiny fingers, she begins feeding the kernels to her brother. The mix of moonlight and bright whites of the movie screen highlight his brilliant smile when she accidentally drops a few pieces down his S t-shirt. Betty finds herself smiling with him.

 

~~~

 

One morning, Betty walks into Riverdale High to find a sea of red--hundreds of flyers advertising the jazz band’s upcoming spring concert having been pasted all over the walls. At the bottom of the piece of paper there’s a little cartoon drawing of the members, and Betty wonders if this is Veronica’s doing. Only she would pay someone to sketch the band as cartoon characters for something as silly as a bunch of flyers that the janitors would be sure to rip down in a few days.

And yet, as much as Betty likes to scoff at her best friend’s excessive tendencies, they always seem to end up working. There are a few minutes to the start of the concert, and the auditorium is already packed. People without proper seats are taking up space on the stairs, and the tickets have already sold out.

What seems to be a wave of silence rolls through the room, starting with the front row and working its way up to the back of the auditorium. Betty, sitting next to Ethel in one of the middle rows, watches as the curtains pull back to reveal the band, each individual member looking out onto the crowd with a beaming smile.

Veronica actually manages to sparkle, a result of the many stage lights bouncing off the custom Swarovski choker around her neck (never one to stray too far off-brand, she’d had the jeweler add in some saltwater pearls). Her fringed black suede mini skirt sways with the movement of her hips as she shifts to bring her mouth to the microphone. “Hello everyone! Thank you for coming out to support us tonight.”

Archie picks up where she drops off in the rehearsed speech, and continues, “We hope you enjoy the show. Up first is our rendition of Herbie Hancock’s classic ‘Chameleon’.” As Betty and the audience explode into applause, he steps back from the microphone to check that the rest of his bandmates are ready to begin. And then he’s strumming out the beat, and Betty notices everyone around her bobbing their heads to the rhythm.

It’s odd, she thinks, to see everyone so enraptured by a few notes and a funky beat. But that’s the beauty of music--its ability to connect deeply with any soul.

Then Jughead joins in with the drums, and there are already people whooping and hollering in support--whoever had chosen “Chameleon” as the group’s opening number had made the right choice. 

The support for the band and its music doesn’t die down after the first few minutes, as Betty had thought it would. In fact, when Jughead jumps into John Coltrane’s “Locomotion” with the most dramatic drum solo Betty’s ever witnessed, the uproar grows louder and louder. People are now standing, clapping, cheering on his energetic performance. He bites his lip in concentration, which makes it look like he’s almost frowning, but Betty can see the happiness radiating off of him--it’s reflected onto every face in the crowd in the form of a wide, toothy smile and brilliant eyes.

Betty thinks that even without the music, Jughead’s enthusiasm could be a performance on its own--could put the same smile on everyone’s faces.

He makes Veronica double over with laughter with every story that she recounts from band rehearsal. He makes Jellybean giggle endlessly with his antics and brotherly affection. And, if the high-pitched noises coming from Betty’s right are anything to go by, he makes Ethel squeal like the teenaged girl she is with his boyish charms.

But, most importantly, the thought of him sends her own body into a frenzy, as if somebody has just dropped a small Mentos into the pit of Diet Coke inside her lower stomach, and now the bubbles are suddenly erupting from within her.

Betty thinks back to Veronica’s words from after her date with Trev. She gets  _ excited _ when she thinks about Jughead--excited at the possibility to get to know him as more than the Jughead Jones she knows from her childhood.

And suddenly the words slip from the tip of her tongue out into the open, luckily hidden from earshot by the overwhelming energy of the room. The words that had haunted her last year, but now seem to have a nice ring to them again.  _ Betty Cooper likes Jughead Jones. _

 

~~~

 

Though her crush is the same, Betty is determined to not repeat the mistakes of the past. She doesn’t look up gossip magazine websites on her computer or spend an extra fifteen minutes on her hair in the mornings.

Sure, she has a crush on Jughead Jones, but it isn’t going to rule her life.

So the school year continues as scheduled, morning after morning survived and conquered with the same daily routine.

Until spring and a ginger-haired boy come knocking at the front door. Betty’s slipping her narrow feet into the only pair of ballet flats she can find (nude with white polka-dots), ready to head out for the day, when she opens the door to reveal Archie, nervously running his hands up and down the straps of his backpack. He greets her with a shy, “Hey, Betty, mind if I walk with you to school today?” but the blonde doesn’t reply. She’s shocked. Never in the entire fifteen years that she has lived nextdoor to Archie Andrews has he wanted to walk with her. Something must be up.

“Totally fine by me, Arch. But what’s going on?”

“What do you mean, Betty? Can’t a guy just want to walk his neighbor to school without having to answer 23 questions?”

Betty rolls her eyes. “Of course. But you’ve never wanted to, so I’m a little suspicious. And it’s only 20 questions.”

She watches his shoulders slump in her peripheral vision, and he sighs. “You know that junior prom’s coming up soon, right?”

Betty internally sighs in relief. She already knows--thinks she knows--where he’s going with this, and it’s so much better than all the doomsday scenarios that had been flickering through her mind a second ago.

“I was going to ask Ron to go with me.” Even though Betty had already seen it coming, she can’t help the little squeal of happiness that escapes her lips. Her best friend’s getting asked to junior prom--and Betty gets to help plan it all out. He smiles at her, understanding her excitement, and now speaks with more confidence than before. “And maybe you could help me--”

“Of course, Archie. What did you have in mind?”

He looks sheepish now, a rosy blush speckling his cheeks when he replies, “I wrote her a song. I was thinking I could play it for her?”

Of course he wrote her a song. It’s exactly the kind of cheesy romance and downright puppy love that Veronica would die for. Betty approves. “That sounds great, Arch, as long as you play it in public.”

Betty bites her lower lip to hold back a laugh when Archie’s eyes nearly bulge out of their sockets. “What? Why?”

“Veronica’s all about the show, you know? So play her the song, hand her some roses, and make sure the whole school is watching. She’ll say ‘yes’ for sure. I mean, she would probably agree to go with you even without all that--because she likes you--but it’s still nice of you to put the effort in.”

Archie’s features relax at the mention of Veronica liking him back, and he looks exactly like Mrs. Pino’s old golden retriever from down the street after he’s buried his newest bone.  _ Ah, puppy love, _ Betty thinks as she and Archie step inside the building, splitting up to head to their own respective first period class.  _ What a wonderful thing. _

Luckily for Veronica, Archie can follow instructions better than the average puppy. He asks her to prom exactly as Betty had told him to earlier that day, with a locker bursting at the seams with bouquets of classic red roses and an original song, sang to the tune of his guitar. Somebody in the crowd of onlookers records the moment when Veronica screams out an unmistakable, “Yes!” and Betty already knows that Veronica will somehow get her hands on that video and replay it for all of Riverdale to see for the rest of her life.

She’s happy for her best friend. And even when Betty opens her own locker to exactly zero roses and absolute silence, that happiness doesn’t fade away.

 

~~~

 

It turns out that not only does Jughead not ask any girl to junior prom, but he also does not attend the event at all. Because when Betty steps into Pop’s Diner that night upon Alice’s request to go pick up some dinner, he’s sitting with the rest of his family in the small corner booth right by the door.

She doesn’t notice the Joneses until she’s already placed her order with Pop, waiting for the Coopers’ food to be ready. Betty’s scrolling through her camera roll on her phone, admiring all the pictures she had taken of Veronica in her floor-length midnight blue prom dress, when she catches Gladys waving in her direction out of the corner of her eye.

“It’s so lovely to see you here, Betty dear,” Gladys coos as Betty approaches their table. She seems to be the only Jones without a burger and basket of fries, having ordered the caesar salad instead. Betty has to hold back a gag when she sees the bit of caesar dressing slowly dripping down the side of the bottle--the tiny drop finally hits the table, and both she and Jughead wrinkle their noses at the same time.

“I heard from your mother that you received the Student of the Quarter award in not one, but two classes last quarter,” Gladys gushes, “You should be really proud of yourself, Betty. That’s amazing. Isn’t it amazing, Jughead?”

The mention of his name snaps Jughead out of his trance, and he finally looks up to face the blonde standing in front of him. “Uh, yeah,” he replies hesitantly.

Betty can tell he’s uncomfortable, so when she sees Gladys’ lips about to form another string of words, she cuts in--“But that’s nothing compared to all the awards Jelly must be getting in Kindergarten now, right?” A mischievous grin splits Jellybean’s face, and she waves her arms around excitedly as she tells the story of how a kid named John had  _ accidentally _ tripped in the hallway last week after pulling one of her pigtails.

Unlike his sister, Jughead is more than happy to step out from under the spotlight, and he shoots Betty a grateful look. She winks, and then slowly turns around to pick up the order that Pop Tate has just placed on the counter for her.

After wishing the Joneses a good night, Betty pushes her way out the door with her shoulder, arms too laden with greasy food to be of any use. This time, when the bell rings behind her, it sounds right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a comment down below. I'd love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> Here are the three songs that were mentioned in the chapter:  
> [If I Ain't Got You by Alicia Keys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCGuu56ALuA)  
> [Chameleon by Herbie Hancock](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UbkqE4fpvdI)  
> [Locomotion by John Coltrane](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2RyrB89s8q8)
> 
> And for anyone wondering what the band's flyers looked like, here's the link to my post on tumblr:  
> [Jazz Band Flyers](https://writeraquamarinara.tumblr.com/post/176541016826/heres-a-little-visual-teaser-i-made-for-chapter?is_highlighted_post=1)
> 
> Come chat with me on tumblr @writeraquamarinara! <3


	4. 11th Grade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta, best friend, and wife Dottie (@[jedormis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cettevieestbien/pseuds/jedormis))
> 
> She wanted me to write this, so here it is: ""Without my beautiful wife Dottie this chapter never would've been written in the first place. We stan a legend."
> 
> Isn't she just adorable? ;)
> 
>  
> 
> <3 Enjoy!

It’s hot.

Too hot for a Friday in September.

Instead of staying in the air-conditioned cafeteria, all of Riverdale High’s students have been forced to step out into the sweltering heat of the blacktop for this year’s Activities Fair. A row of grills lines the farthest edge, where cafeteria workers are cooking up hamburgers with soggy buns and some pale, sickly-looking hot dogs. Other tables sit at the two sides of a long central strip of asphalt, where students are milling about. On every plastic table sit two tri-fold posters, each advertising one of the school’s clubs. The Gay-Straight-Alliance hands out bubble wands, and kids are blowing them all around, resulting in bursts of soap exploding in front of people’s faces or ending up on the ground, making it glisten in the sunlight.

Every other club seems to have gone the classic route of using candy as a bribe, and so the trash bin by the Gender Equality club overflows with Jolly Rancher and Laffy Taffy wrappers.

Ginger, with her curls and odd streaks of blonde, catches Betty’s eye as she shouts from on top of her chair, encouraging people from across the blacktop to come join the yearbook committee.

“Betty!” The girl jumps down from her chair and runs over to give the blonde a hug. “I haven’t seen you in forever. How was your summer?” Betty doesn’t have a chance to respond before Ginger’s shoving a little fan into her arms. “It’s horrible out here--take that.” She uses her own pink and brown fan to blow air towards the back of her neck. “You’ll join yearbook this year, right?” There’s a naively hopeful expression on her face, and Betty immediately feels guilty at having to reject her. She has no interest in joining yearbook and sending out inane surveys, recording every senior’s quote, or reporting which of Riverdale High’s sports teams made it to states.

Luckily, she doesn’t have to say anything. Jughead, from where he had been sitting--feet up on the table by his unfinished poster for something called _The_ _Blue and Gold_ \--rips off his headphones and wanders around the table to face Ginger. “No can do, I’m afraid. Betty’s already signed up for the newspaper.”

So that’s what  _ The Blue and Gold  _ is--a newspaper. She knew she’d heard her mother mention the name when recalling some of her high school memories. Jughead must have somehow convinced Weatherbee to revive it this year.

Jughead throws his arm over her shoulder, a reassuring gesture, and she slowly lets out a, “Yeah, sorry Ginger.”

The girl in front of her huffs, but doesn’t seem overly disappointed, and steps back on her chair to yell out, “Come join yearbook! It counts as an English credit towards graduation!” That draws in a crowd of stoners looking to get out of an actual English class, and Jughead leads Betty over to his half of the table amidst all of the commotion.

“You don’t have to join the newspaper if you don’t want to,” he tells her as he flops back into his own chair and sets his boots on to the table. That’s when Betty notices his attire--layers of t-shirts and flannels, denim, and the usual beanie. It’s much too hot for all that. “But I just thought I’d save you.” At Betty’s raised eyebrow, he rushes to elaborate. “Not that you needed saving or anything. Definitely not that.”

Betty chuckles, setting her hands on her hips. “Well, what if I want to join?” If she got to write more than just the simple fluff pieces on the newest booth at this week’s farmer’s market that her mother assigned her at  _ The Register _ , Betty would be more than happy. Add in getting to spend some extra time with Jughead in the office every day? Sign her up.

A brilliant smile lights up his face, and then Jughead’s sliding a paper her way. There’s a pen on top of the loose leaf, and the paper’s divided into three columns: name, number, school email.

Betty fills in her information underneath Kevin’s name and contact in blue ink, then caps the pen. 

“Betty!” she suddenly hears for the second time in ten minutes. This time, it’s screeched right into her ear, as Ethel stands only a few inches away from her. Even Jughead winces, and he moves to put his headphones back on.

“What are you signing up for?” Ethel asks, even though she can clearly read  _ The Blue and Gold  _ on Jughead’s tri-fold. “Can I join?”

Betty shrugs, and points to Jughead. “It’s his club--ask him.”

Jughead just shrugs back, indicating that he was listening to their conversation despite having his headphones on, and Betty smiles when Ethel leans over to write her own name on the sign-up sheet. “Thanks for letting us join, Jughead,” she tells him in her softest voice.

“Anything for you, Betty,” he tells her, and then shuffles to hide the sign-up sheet behind the poster. Obviously, he isn’t exactly interested in growing the newspaper’s staff by all that much. He gives her a small wave when she starts walking over to grab a DumDum from Model UN’s table.

She waves back with the fan she still has in her hands and starts to blow some air towards her neck as Ginger had done earlier. Still, she feels hotter than ever before.

 

~~~

 

The first  _ Blue and Gold _ meeting is the following Monday, and Betty’s excitement propels her towards the newspaper’s office as soon as the last bell rings.

She can tell the lights are on in the room through the blurry glass pane of the door’s window, but can’t tell if anybody’s in there yet. It doesn’t matter. Betty shoulders her way past the heavy oak door and comes face to face with Mrs. Warner, her European History teacher from last year.

“Hi, Betty,” she greets from her chair behind the largest desk in the room--it’s ornate and carved delicately out of a hunk of solid mahogany, and Betty wonders if it’s one of the first pieces of furniture the school ever bought when it opened up all those years ago.

“I was so excited to see your name on the sign-up list Jughead gave me. I’m sure you’ll write some amazing pieces for  _ The Blue and Gold _ .”

Betty flushes at the compliment--she’d known Mrs. Warner had liked her last year, but not this much. Unless she’s just being nice.

“That’s why I forced her to join, Mrs. W,” a voice that Betty recognizes as Jughead’s jests from where he’s crouching behind a few bookcases. She hadn’t seen him when she first walked in, and her heart begins beating faster. “Did you know she got Student of the Quarter in not one, but two classes last year?” He’s smiling, teasing, and Betty knows that he’s recalling Gladys’ words from the diner.

She smiles back and sets her bookbag down on a nearby chair. “Yes, Mrs. Warner, I was forced to join. Isn’t that terrible? Women have no autonomy these days.”

Jughead reels back, hands thrown into the air. “Woah, woah, woah. Way to ruin the joke, Betts.”

_ Betts.  _ Nobody’s ever called her that before. But hearing him say it sends a tingling sensation down her spine, and Betty decides she likes it.

Mrs. Warner pulls her glasses off and rubs at the bridge of her nose, chuckling. “I assume you two know each other rather well, then?”

“Really well,” Jughead answers, a hint of something in his tone, and Mrs. Warner’s nose wrinkles.

“Not like that!” Betty shouts out immediately.  _ Definitely not like that _ .

Then Ethel walks in, curls bouncing with each of her giddy steps. “Hi, Betty,” she greets happily, and then looks over towards the ancient desk. “I heard you were going to be our faculty advisor, Mrs. Warner, and I just had to sign up.” Like a whirlwind, Ethel slows down for nobody, not even for Mrs. Warner’s response. She twirls around to face the other side of the room, skater dress flaring out around her thighs. “Hi Jughead!” Betty catches the pink on her cheeks when he sends a small wave back. Ethel starts rummaging through her bag for some supplies--Betty guesses to take notes during their meeting--when she jumps out of her kitten heels at the sound of a voice at her back.

“What about me?” Kevin asks, grin on his face. He seems to be the last member of the newspaper to arrive, so Jughead shuts the door behind him and leans against it, arms crossed and face amused.

“Don’t scare me like that, Kevin Keller!” All of the giddiness seems to have seeped out of the girl, as she now slouches in a small swivel chair, tugging nervously at her hair with her fingers.

“No promises, Ethel,” he says wickedly, swinging his messenger bag over his shoulder and dropping it to the floor before running over to Betty. She feels her toes leave the floor with the rest of her body, lifted off the ground by his arms as they wrap around her in a bear hug. “Hey, Betty.”

“Hi, Kev,” she giggles, head still tucked into the crook of his neck. “How’ve you been?” She hadn’t seen him all summer, as she was away for her internship in the city, and he was at a sleepaway camp by Lake George. They’d promised to send each other letters, as snail-mail was the only accepted form of communication at Camp Chingachgook, but had given up half-way through the summer. It took too much effort on both of their parts, and there was rarely any time to actually sit down and write out what always proved to be lengthy responses.

“Better than ever. I got to study up on some basic anatomy these past few weeks.” He sends her a wink as he pulls back from their hug, and she laughs again.

“God, I missed you,” she tells him as he sets her down, and her feet touch the floor again.

He tugs playfully at her ponytail and then turns around to face Jughead, eyes twinkling. “So, when’s this meeting gonna start?” 

 

~~~

 

It’s the second Friday since school started, and also the second Friday in a row that Hal’s not home.

Alice and Hal are always gone for local news conferences, workshops, and lectures--but never on Fridays. Friday nights are the one night a week that the Coopers all come together, whether that be through a trip to the movie theater, mini-golf course, or arcade. Betty cherishes those nights and the sense of comfort they bring her.

So, as she idly twirls her spaghetti onto her fork, all she can focus on is the empty space across from her at the dining room table, and not whatever conversation her mother is trying to entertain at the moment. Suddenly, a narrow foot kicks her in the shins underneath the table, toenails cutting into Betty’s skin, and she lets out a yelp. “What?” she hisses to her sister.

Polly silently tilts her head towards her mother, who seems to be expecting an answer to the question she just asked.

“Sorry, could you repeat that?”

Alice sets her own fork down by her plate, running her fingers over the napkin in her lap, and sighs. “I can see you girls are disappointed. To be quite honest, I am as well. But he has work obligations this weekend, and so it’s just easier for him to stay at his hotel in the city.”

_ Bullshit. _ That’s complete and utter bullshit, and both Betty and Polly know it. Alice knows it. She sighs again. “How about we spend the night like usual, but it’s just the three of us this time? That’d be fun.”

The wrinkle lines in Alice’s face seem deeper than ever, carved into her skin by the stresses of life--of the past few weeks, to be exact. Her forehead scrunches in concentration, as if it’s taking all of her energy to stay composed for her daughters. Betty shoots a glance towards Polly, who’s already looking to catch her eye.  _ Just go with it _ .

“What did you have in mind, mom?” Polly asks as she reaches for the pitcher of water in the center of the table and subsequently refills her cup.

“The Drive-In’s showing  _ Breakfast at Tiffany’s  _ tonight, and I thought it would be a good movie to see together. Just us girls.” Alice’s voice nearly cracks at that last bit, tears threatening to fall from the corners of her eyes, and Betty thinks that she would have agreed to see any movie tonight as long as it brought a smile back to her mother’s face.

There are still a few stray tears streaking through Alice’s foundation when she pulls her station wagon into the Drive-In’s lot. She wipes them away with the back of her hand as the Cooper girls set a few blankets down on the hood of the car. It’s not at all as comfortable as the bed of Archie’s pick-up, but Betty doesn’t mind. There’s something quite familiar about being wedged in between her mother and her sister, knees pulled up to her chest and arms wound around them.

As they wait for the rest of the audience to settle down and for the old-timey countdown to begin ticking away on the screen, Betty tilts her head backwards against the windshield to gaze at the emerging night stars. They come to life as darkness slowly glazes over Riverdale, and then suddenly dim to nothingness when the blinding lights of the big screen brighten. Betty blinks rapidly to readjust her eyesight.

Her stomach begins to rumble around the time Paul has Doc Golightly’s Cracker Jack ring engraved, and Betty reaches into her jacket pocket for a few crumpled dollar bills.

“Grab me something, will you Betty?” Polly whispers just before Betty jumps off the hood of the station wagon, and she only nods in response. Her mother stays silent, watching with rapt attention as Paul ends his relationship with Tooley for Holly, and Betty makes a mental note to grab some extra napkins at the concessions stand (the night will no doubt end with them being used as tissues to stem the flow of tears streaming down Alice’s face).

An unamused teen mans the concessions stand, and Betty only recognizes him as Chaz from the Drama Club because of the name tag pinned to his uniform. The line isn’t nearly as long as it usually is, and Betty finds herself ordering in a record amount of time. Chaz hands her an ice-cream sandwich (for Polly) from the freezer box, and then slides a pack of Twizzlers her way before reciting the total amount of $4.25.

“Twizzlers, really?” a voice chides from behind her--one that belongs to the beanie-wearing boy of her dreams--and one that makes her turn defensive all of a sudden.

“What’s wrong with Twizzlers?” She whirls around, clutching the red licorice close to her chest. The candy is her favorite movie-time snack, and he isn’t about to change that.

“Nothing, as long as you’re fine with picking sticky red shit out of your teeth for the next week and a half.”

“Fine then, Gordon Ramsay, what would you get to eat?”

“For myself, I’d buy out this entire snack stand. For you, I’d go with some Red Vines.”

Betty throws her arms up into the air, exasperated. “They’re the same exact thing as Twizzlers!” she shouts out indignantly.

Jughead brings his hand to his chest in mock outrage. “How dare you. This is a travesty, Betty, and one I can not let go on any longer.” He reaches around her, shoving a five dollar bill onto the counter, and Chaz hands him a pack of Red Vines--obviously having paid more attention to their conversation than he’d probably like to admit. Jughead dumps all the change into the tip jar, and Betty doesn’t think she’s ever seen a concessions stand worker so happy.

He passes the red licorice over to her and then says, deadly serious, “I’ve gotta go back to the projectors, Betts, but I expect a full report on how much better Red Vines are than Twizzlers on my desk by Monday morning.” He gives her a small salute, walking backwards away from her, and nearly bumps into Mrs. Mantle, who sends him a withering glare.

Arms full of Red Vines, nearly-identical Twizzlers, a melted ice-cream sandwich, and dozens of napkins, Betty makes her way back to her family’s car. Polly frowns when she peels back the ice cream’s wrapper to reveal a mixture of runny vanilla ice cream and soggy chocolate cookie, but Betty ignores her. She distributes the napkins equally between the three of them, and then begins to devour strips of licorice piece by piece. By the time Holly Golightly finds the cat in the alleyway, and Alice is quietly sobbing at Betty’s side, she’s already finished the entire pack of Red Vines.

When she pops a Twizzler into her mouth during Paul and Holly’s rain kiss, the candy tastes a little sweeter, a little more like strawberry, but--overall--almost exactly the same. That report’s going to be more mundane than one of her pieces on the farmer’s market.

 

~~~

 

Betty is a strong believer in second chances. And--when it comes to the SAT, apparently--also third, fourth, and fifth. There are only so many test dates available before she has to send her scores off to colleges next fall, and she’s going to make the most of them.

So, while all of her friends are busy enjoying the last vestige of summer weather after school, she finds herself holed up in  _ The Blue and Gold  _ office, review book in front of her and fingers combing through her ponytail. She taps the neon pink highlighter lightly against the desk in time with the violin of Vivaldi’s “Winter.”

Betty likes English--would even go as far as to say that it’s her best subject--but the reading section of the practice test she’s currently taking makes her want to go buy a paper shredder and toss all 848 pages worth of review book into the machine. And she hasn’t even looked at the math section yet.

“What does the word ‘track’ mean in line 8,” she reads aloud before flipping back a few pages to reread the article. Her eyes scan the line markers until she hits halfway between 5 and 10, and then she reads the sentence again, ingraining it in her mind.  _ Continue _ , she decides it means when she remembers the four possible options given to her. She’s turning back to question sixteen when the edge of the page slices through the pad of her pointer finger, and then Betty jumps up with an exaggerated, “Motherf--!” before sucking on her finger to stem the flow of blood.

“I don’t think that’s the answer, Betts. Unless Collegeboard’s allowing those kinds of words on their exams nowadays. Times must be changing I guess,” comes an amused voice from behind her. Betty turns quickly, eyes wide with alarm, lips still wrapped around her finger. She quickly releases it with a loud pop and wrings her hands together in front of her.

“Ah, no,” she chuckles nervously, “That’s definitely not the answer. I’m just a little stressed.”

“About what, Coop? The SATs? Those are a long way away.” He leans against a bookcase behind him, arms crossed over his chest lightly.

“No,” she huffs, annoyed at his flippancy, “they’re not. The first test is next Saturday, just a few days away. So I really should be getting back to work.” She picks up her highlighter from where it’s about to roll off the edge of the desk and sets herself back down on her chair. She’s about to turn up the volume of her classical music again when his voice cuts through the stale, musty air of the old room, much softer this time.

“I’m serious, Betty. You need to give yourself a break.” She feels herself moving in her chair before she realizes what’s happening, and then he’s standing right in front of her, and she has to look up to catch his gaze. The new angle highlights his sharp jawline and piercing blue eyes, and she isn’t complaining. “Come with me. I’d like to show you something,” he tells her in a voice tinged with both excitement and, she thinks, nervousness. He seems almost uneasy at the idea of rejection, of her not trusting him enough to follow him blindly into the world, and her insides twist at the thought.

Wanting to ease the tension from his shoulders, she jokes, “As long as it’s not Poppy’s, then lead the way, Aladdin.”

He seems a little taken aback by her statement, but recovers rather quickly. “What’s wrong with Poppy’s, my dear Jasmine?”

“Nothing,” she grins and reaches to shut her highlighter inside the review book as a bookmark. “But seriously, where are we going?”

He shushes her with the touch of a finger to his lips, and then answers, “It’s a surprise, Betts, don’t ruin it for yourself.”

She huffs, swinging her backpack over her shoulders. “Fine, but if you murder me in the woods, I will come back to life and kill you.” His chuckle echoes as he steps out into the nearly empty hallway, and she follows the sound all the way to the exit.

 

_ Of course he drives a motorcycle _ , she thinks as she stands opposite him in the school parking lot. His arms are outstretched, offering her a matte black helmet with a crown scratched into it, but she refuses to give in. “Nope. No. I will not take that from you, Jughead.”

“What? Scared?”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course not. But it’s illegal in the state of New York to ride a motorbike without a helmet, and if I can do my SAT math correctly, then there are two of us and only one of those things. That just doesn’t add up.”

“And this is when we say ‘Fuck the SAT  _ and  _ its math’ because one of us has an in with the Sheriff’s son, and I don’t think Keller will give a damn if he sees me without this thing on. So take it.”

He pushes it towards her, and she finally relents. He does have a point.

“Alright,” she concedes, “but if you crack your head open you better not blame me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Betts,” he says with a smirk on his face--one that she can see even if she’s now seated behind him on the bike, arms wrapped loosely around his torso. She can feel his abs under her fingers even through the layers and layers of fabric, and her heart rate speeds up with the rev of the engine.

Just as he’s about to take off, one of his hands releases the handle and comes to wrap around her fingers, tugging her arm closer around him. “You’ve got to hold on tight, alright?”

She nods against his back, nose inches away from his neck, and then she winds her arms around him even more tightly. “How’s this?” she asks with a smile.

“Perfect.”

 

They drive through windy backroads and narrow streets until they come face to face with the back of the sign that Betty knows reads, “Welcome to Riverdale, the town with pep!” but Jughead doesn’t stop. He keeps driving right into what Betty assumes to be Greendale territory and never slows down for a second.

At least, not until they hit a bit of traffic in the center of town, where cars are attempting to find parking and people are jaywalking from makeup store to coffee shop to boutique. Jughead manages to wedge his bike in between a parked car and the painted crosswalk, and he hops off once the kickstand has been lowered, swinging his leg over the seat. Betty follows suit, and then smooths out her ponytail once she’s handed the helmet back over to him.

The skies are a bit cloudy, gray, but Betty doesn’t mind it. She doesn’t think Jughead does either because there’s a toothy grin on his face and a twinkle in his eyes.

“Come on, Betts,” he tells her as he makes his way down the sidewalk, barely allowing her any time to catch up. He does hold his right hand out behind him, though, and she places the palm of her left in his before he can change his mind. Her heart starts beating nearly as fast as it had during their motorcycle ride, and she wills it to calm.

He guides her through streams of wandering souls, only to stop in front of a small door separated by a silver bar-handle into two panes of glass. Painted onto the glass in gold are the words “The Rose Petal Bookshop”, and he lets go of her hand in order to pull the door open for the both of them. Betty feels her stomach drop with her arm.

As they climb up the steep flight of stairs right inside, all Betty notices about the place is the smell--rotting paper and withering books. She loves it already.

“Hey, Maurice,” Jughead greets as he reaches the top of the staircase right behind her. A man behind a wooden counter--Maurice, she guesses--looks up from where he’s reading  _ In Cold Blood _ , and sends them a gap-toothed smile.

“Jughead, my boy! Haven’t seen you around in a long while. What brings you back?”

Betty’s too lost examining the small room (all dusty corners, foggy windows, low ceilings, tilted bookshelves, and ripped-up armchairs) to pay any attention to their conversation, so Jughead steps around her and heads towards the old man. “Just thought we could use a break,” he shrugs in response.

“ _ We _ , huh?” He chuckles and then erupts into a violent coughing fit that brings a concerned expression to Jughead’s face. After a few beats of silence--during which he catches his breath--Maurice asks, “And who might this lovely lady be?”

The coughing drags Betty’s attention away from the bookcase of T authors (Tolkien, Tolstoy, Twain…), and she outstretches her arm to shake his hand. “I’m Betty. It’s very nice to meet you.”

His fingers, though bony, grip her hand tightly and then release her to wave them off towards the rest of the room. “You too, Miss Betty. Now you kids go have fun on your break,” he tells them giddily before returning to his book.

With that, Jughead’s tugging on her hand again, leading her to a group of armchairs placed around a small glass coffee table with so many books stacked on top of it that Betty’s surprised the glass hasn’t cracked under the pressure. He grabs a random novel from the top of the pile and sets himself down on one of the four chairs with it, sinking heavily into the plush leather backing.

“Go ahead, take anything,” he tells her, tilting his head towards the books in front of him. “They’re all amazing--everything in here is.” Betty hopes he isn’t just talking about the literary works surrounding them, and a small blush creeps up her neck at the thought, so she ducks her head.

She does still swipe the first book to catch her eye before sitting down in the chair across from him, but doesn’t open it to the first page. Or any other page for that matter.

It stays closed in her lap when she asks, plain and simple, “Why’d you bring me here, Jughead?” She realizes a second too late just how ungrateful she sounds and subsequently trips over her tongue to elaborate. “I mean, I love it here--so much. So thank you for forcing me along. But….”

He closes his own book to throw his hands up in the air dramatically, tilting his head down to catch her gaze. “God, women really have no autonomy these days.”

“I didn’t--I didn’t mean it like that!” she defends through a fit of giggles. “But really…” she drifts off, unable to find the right words, but he seems to understand.

“I used to come here a lot when I was younger. With my parents.” He looks over her shoulder now, staring out into nothingness as his eyes glaze over with nostalgia. The typical cerulean blue of his irises turns a bit more stormy, tinged with gray. “We would spend evenings here on the weekends, reading together in the peace and quiet of this hole-in-the-wall bookstore, before going out to dinner. That was before Jellybean was born, and then the tradition sort of fizzled out. She’s never been here. And, as much as I love her, it’s probably for the best; this place is mine,” he shoots her a small smile, lips in a tight line, “And now it’s yours, too. I hope you come here when you’re stressed out, or need to hit pause on life. It’s a good place for that.”

Betty swears she can feel her heart grow a size too big for her chest. She’s warm despite the cool breeze filtering in through the open window behind her. He cares about her, likes her, enough to show her this little store. A store that most people would walk right past, thinking nothing of it, but that means a whole lot more to him.

“Thank you, Jughead,” she tells him sincerely, now clutching the book to her chest.

The church bells from a few streets over chime out the time, and Betty’s suddenly aware of the outside world again. Alice Cooper would be filing a missing persons report with the Sheriff if she didn’t get home soon enough. Jughead somehow reads her mind, and then he’s dropping his book back onto the coffee table and sending a wave goodbye in Maurice’s direction.

The distinct sound of rain hitting pavement comes through the glass door when the two of them reach the bottom of the stairs, and Betty groans. Jughead just grins, grabs her hand, and pulls her behind him as he runs to the bike.

The rain pelts down on them the whole ride back to Riverdale, but Betty pays it no attention. She’s too enraptured by the way his wet t-shirt clings to the hard planes of his chest to care about anything else--including the stern look Alice Cooper gives her when she shows up at the door soaked to the bone.

 

~~~

 

It seems as if as soon as the clock strikes twelve a.m. on October 1st, all of Riverdale is already set to go for Halloween. Mechanized black cats stare her down from her neighbors’ yards as she walks the suburban streets to school, and her backpack gets caught in a few fake cobwebs as she ducks through the  _ Blue and Gold _ office’s doorway in the morning.

The room’s already decorated as well--likely Ethel’s doing--and carved pumpkins sit on every windowsill, glinting menacingly under the sun. A small styrofoam tombstone sticks up from the top of Mrs. Warner’s ancient desk, and the letters “RIP” are painted over it in a mossy gray.

Betty follows the trail of footprint stickers on the floor all the way to the back of the room, where cabinets store all the old editions of the paper. If her mother wrote for the newspaper when she went to Riverdale High, her articles should be in there--and Betty’s excited to finally find something she and her mom can bond over.

She’s sitting on the floor, legs crossed and back hunched over as she rifles through the lowest drawer of the metal filing cabinet, when she hears the door to the office open. Strange, considering nobody comes in here in the mornings.

“I don’t know, Arch, maybe we should just skip out this year.”

“Oh come on, just because they’re playing Zoolander 2 and some other Benedict Cucumber movie this year doesn’t mean we should break tradition. We go to the Bijou double feature every year for your birthday, and that’s not gonna change tomorrow. Especially not our senior year--what if it’s our last hurrah!? What if we’re across the world from each other next year and can’t make it to the theater?”

Betty can just imagine Jughead rolling his eyes at his best friend, but doesn’t move to look. She can’t run the risk of them seeing her, or hearing her, as this seems like a pretty private conversation she doesn’t want to be caught in the middle of.

A heavy bag gets dropped onto a desk, and then a swivel chair squeaks as somebody leans back in it. Betty remembers Jughead sitting with his feet on the table at the Activities Fair, and the thought makes her smile to herself.

The boys continue to argue with each other until ten to eight, when they head out for first period. Or, one of them heads out for first period.

Betty lifts herself off the floor, groaning as her hip pops ( _ God, when did she get so old? _ ), and steps out of the back corner to come face to face with Jughead, who had been rummaging through his bag for a breakfast bar but now stands frozen, jaw hanging open in shock.

“You’ve been in here the whole time?”

She shrugs casually, trying not to look equally as shocked at his presence; she’d thought they had left the room together. “Yeah, just trying to read up on some older papers, see what kinds of articles they wrote back in the day. Nothing major.”

He’s still gaping after her as she winds around desks and chairs to the door, and when she leaves him with a small “Happy early birthday, Jug,” his forehead wrinkles and jaw hardens.  _ Obviously not a big fan of the day, _ she thinks as she sets off for her locker.

The next morning, right before heading off to stare down some evil lawn cats, Betty sets a small box of cupcakes on Archie’s doorstep. The small note she’s taped to it reads, “ _Everyone deserves free sweets at least once a year. Enjoy your special day_ _\- Betty_ ”.

 

~~~

 

She and Veronica have P.E. together the last period of the day, which often proves handy when she needs those extra few minutes to shower off after class and can’t be worrying about whether she’ll make it to Psych on time.

It’s exactly a week before the 31st, and Veronica decides that the best time to discuss their Halloween costumes is while they’re playing two-on-two volleyball in the gym.

The raven-haired girl throws the ball into the air and then hits it over the net with the palm of her right hand, sending Dilton Doiley into a dive as he attempts to hit the ball back over to the girls’ side of the court. He misses it, of course, and Veronica grins as he falls face first onto the gym floors for nothing.

“So, B, I was trying to come up with some costume ideas for us while I was at Archie’s the other day.”

Betty shoots her a look from where she’s standing, bent over to pick up the ball that Raj Patel rolls her way under the net. “Why were you thinking about Halloween costumes around Archie?”

“Because,” Veronica huffs, setting herself up for another winning serve, “he was playing some boring video games on the couch. And I had nothing else to do! But,” she smiles and then whacks the ball so hard it nearly lands out of bounds on the other side of the court, “his silly games came in handy. There were these two girls on the screen, Peach and Daisy, and they’re just perfect, don’t you think?”

“You want to go as princesses? Like every other fourth grade girl in the world?”

“Hey, what’s wrong with princesses?” Veronica crosses her arms as she watches Dilton chase the rolling volleyball around the gym.

“Nothing, I guess. I was just expecting to grab my old Nancy Drew coat and magnifying glass and call it a day.”

Veronica rolls her eyes, hard. “That’s not appropriate wear for an event as special as Cheryl Blossom’s Halloween Bash.”

“Funny, Veronica. As if we’d ever get into that.”

The volleyball rolls towards the raven-haired girl, and she stops it with the delicate touch of her left heel. “I’m serious, B. We’re going this year.” There’s a hint of pride in her voice, understandable considering the amount of trouble she must’ve gone to in order to get both of them into the party. Sure, she could have played the Lodge card and gotten herself a free pass in a snap, but Veronica must have pulled some other strings to get Cheryl to accept Betty’s presence as well.

Betty sighs, knowing that her Halloween night has already been planned for her. There’s no way she’s going to get away with trick-or-treating and trading her candy around with Polly this year.

“Fine, princesses it is. But you are aware that Daisy has red hair, right?”

Veronica waves a hand. “I had a custom ginger wig sent from New York two days ago. It was set in stone the second I thought of it--we’re going as Peach and Daisy.”

A week later, Betty finds herself standing in front of the Blossom manor clad in a silky pink dress much shorter than that of the video game character. When she had complained that it was nearly winter, and therefore much too cold for such a skimpy outfit, Veronica had just shoved a pair of thick white thigh-high socks her way. Veronica whispers a quick word into Moose’s ear (he’s tonight’s bouncer, and is therefore appropriately dressed as a member of the Secret Service, complete with the sunglasses and earpiece), and then both princesses are being ushered inside.

Betty walks while staring at the floor, watching that her black pumps don’t end up in any puddles of spilt drinks on the hardwood. Veronica pulls her through crowds of people by her white-gloved fingers, and then she stops abruptly. Betty nearly bumps into her from behind and forces herself to look up.

Archie, only recognizable as Luigi from the bright green t-shirt tucked into his dad’s construction overalls and the fake mustache hanging off his upper lip, holds out two shot glasses towards the girls, and Veronica takes both from him. She knocks one back immediately, face twisting up at the burn of the vodka down her throat, and then arches an eyebrow in Betty’s direction.  _ You want the other one? _

Betty shakes her head, sending her blonde curls flying around her shoulders and testing the strength of the many bobby pins holding Peach’s crown to her head. She’s going to drink tonight, sure, but shots just sound like the worst way to start off the night--she isn’t looking for a killer hangover in the morning.

Veronica promptly wraps her lips around the second shot glass and sends the liquid straight down her throat, only to follow it with a big gulp of orange juice from a new cup that Archie’s procured her with. She already seems a bit tipsy, a lightweight if Betty’s ever seen one, and sways in her six-inch stilettos as she takes an uneasy step forward. 

Wrapping one arm around her torso and holding her steady at the shoulders with the other, Archie leads his girlfriend towards an unoccupied loveseat in the middle of the Blossoms’ sitting room. She kisses him fiercely as soon as they’re sitting down, and Betty looks away. She did not come here to third wheel tonight, especially not when she could be having ten times the amount of fun eating candy at home with Polly while they watched Halloweentown on the couch.

As the distinguished smells of cheap vodka and weed permeate the air around her, Betty decides she needs to step outside--to breathe a bit better. She begins to make her way past a group of drunk girls dressed in all black with cat whiskers painted on their faces when Ginger stops her, seemingly materializing out of nowhere. She’s wearing a white-and-black outfit, has baseball cap on her head, holds a spray-paint bottle in her hand (which Betty’s sure is full of cheap beer if the girl’s breath is anything to go by), and screams over the loud techno music blaring from the surround-sound speakers in Cheryl’s house, “Hi Betty, I’m Banksy!” She hiccups lightly. “No--I’m actually Ginger. Fooled ya, didn’t I?”

Betty smiles, nods amusedly, and then attempts to side-step the girl and continue on her path to the backyard patio. But Ginger stops her by wrapping her arms around her in a bear hug, beer breath blowing across the blonde’s face as she lets out a giggle. “I’m so happy you’re here, Betty! This party was so boring before you got here.” Betty struggles to hold her upright, as Ginger lets herself sink into her friend enough to go limp.

“Come on, Ginger,” she coaxes. “Let’s get you some water.”

Ginger frowns at that and manages to hold herself up enough to pull away. “But I’m not thirsty,” she pouts, immediately contradicting herself as she grabs a shot glass off a table and downs its contents. Betty grimaces--there’s no knowing what was in that thing.

“Whoo!” the girl hollers, stumbling into the crowd of partiers as it engulfs her once again. Betty attempts to chase after her, but ends up more lost and lonely than before, and decides that she’s been sober long enough tonight. Suddenly, Reggie Mantle walks into her line of sight, six packs of beer hanging off of him like Christmas tree ornaments, and she somehow manages to convince him to let her grab a can.

She’s crossed the line past tipsy a few beers (and two jello shots) later, and her vision starts to haze as she follows a crowd of girls into the dining room. They all spread out to evenly encircle the table, where Tina Patel is currently breakdancing in her ripped-up Tina Belcher costume to the early 2000s Black Eyed Peas song the DJ has playing.

When she falls onto her stomach and vomits over the edge of the table, the clapping turns to groans of disgust, and somebody helps Tina to the bathroom. Everyone stares blankly at the empty table, waiting for someone to step up and get the crowd going again, and Betty finds herself to be the chosen one.

The song switches mid-track, and then Betty’s up on the table, head swinging wildly underneath the Blossoms’ expensive crystal chandelier. Her arms flail as she travels from one end of the table to the other, hips swirling as if there’s a hoola-hoop wrapped around her body, and soon cheers erupt from the crowd.

Someone passes her a glass, cool in the palm of her hand, and she takes it gratefully. Her throat’s feeling a bit dry, and maybe the drink will help. She downs it, and her throat burns more than it had before, but adrenaline surges in her veins, and she suddenly feels more alive than ever.

Her crown flies off her head as she swiftly bends down to take off her heels, throwing them at the wall across the room. The thin straps of her dress slip down the more she moves, and a small thrill runs through her everytime she catches someone eyeing her collarbones.

A grabby hand reaches for her foot, but she tugs it away just in time, and the person only manages to pull at her sock, sliding it slowly down her leg until the creamy skin of her thighs is exposed. She giggles at the sight, and can’t seem to stop laughing even after it stops being funny.

“Alright, that’s enough,” she hears a gruff voice come from behind her, a sense of finality in its tone. And then she’s being hoisted over someone’s shoulders--a man’s shoulders, broad and strong--and she’s still laughing too hard to protest. Plus, it feels good being in his arms, like she’s safe and not as lonely anymore.

Her eyes close as he carries her outside, preferring the numbing darkness over the dizziness that comes with vision. Her body sways with every step he takes, even and sure, and she estimates them to be halfway across the lawn by the time he sets her back down on the ground.

She opens an eye hesitantly, but her vision starts swimming, and her eye clamps shut again. “Who are you?” she drawls out before she begins to tip backwards. His arms catch her right as she’s about to freefall to the grass, and she sighs in relief.  
“Jughead,” he breathes out, and she can’t tell if he’s amused or upset. Her eyebrows knit together and a pout forms on her lips. She can’t have him being upset with her.

“Jug-head,” she repeats, slowly. “Has anyone ever told you how weird your name is?”

He chuckles now, from deep in his belly, and she smiles. “Only a few hundred times,” he tells her. When she opens her eyes this time, her vision clears, and she doesn’t feel as if she’s about to tumble to the ground again. He’s by her side, eyes watching her out of her concern. “It’s late, Betts.” He gestures absently to the moon high in the sky above them with the arm that isn’t supporting most of her body weight. “And I don’t have a car to drive you home in, so we’re going to have to start walking now if we want to get to your house before sunrise.”

She digs her feet into the ground, unmoving. “I don’t want to go home,” she pouts.

“Well, lets hope you change your mind by the time we get there, alright?” His hand guides her out of the backyard from its spot at the small of her back, heat seeping through the thin material of her dress to warm her insides.

They pass the intricate cast-iron gates that separate Thornhill Mansion from the rest of Riverdale, and begin their descent downhill towards Elm Street. Betty’s heels are in Jughead’s hands (he must have picked them up from the floor after she’d thrown them away), and she’s walking the streets in her white socks--which are sure to be ruined beyond repair by the time she steps foot inside her house.

Her toe gets caught in a slight crack in the sidewalk, tripping her up, and the alcohol in her blood doesn’t help with her balance. Luckily, his arms fly to her sides again, and then she’s standing upright and intact.

“You’re so strong, Juggie,” she giggles, running her fingers up and down the sleeves of his flannel. He starts walking again, looking straight ahead instead of at her, and Betty can now see the tiny little moles speckling the side of his face. She moves her hand upwards to trace lines between the dots, and whispers into the night, “They look like the stars,” before moving over to his lips. “Has anyone ever told you that you have nice lips?”

Her eyes are wide with wonder, glistening in the moonlight, and she traps her bottom lip between her teeth when a low groan reverberates through her fingers, which still brush over his mouth.

He turns his head away from her, letting her arm drop back to her side, and then tells her softly, “We’re almost at your house, Betts. Just a few more blocks.”

She nods and stumbles along with him until they reach the Cooper doorstep. Betty isn’t sure how late it is, but the light is on in the kitchen, so her mother must still be up. Jughead seems to assume the same, because he stops right outside the door and bids her a quick goodnight, but she grabs onto the lapels of his flannel before he can step away.

“Thank you for walking me home,” she breathes out before pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek. Her grin is infectious when she pulls away, and he’s smiling right back at her.

She opens the front door behind her, but trips over the raised doorstep on her way in, and--for what seems to be the tenth time that night--his arms reach out to catch her on her way down. “Gosh, Betts,” he laughs quietly, “how are you going to manage getting up to your room without alerting the whole neighborhood?”

The harsh tone of her mother’s voice cuts through the foggy night air, and both teens clutch at each other out of fear of having been found out. But then they hear an aggravated “That’s not your business anymore, Hal,” and Betty knows they’re in the clear.

Jughead sticks his head inside the door to make sure Alice is turned away from them while she’s on the phone, and then he guides them silently through the house and up the stairs. He even knows to skip over the creaky floorboard on the third step from the top from all of their childhood dinners, and all she can think is  _ he remembers. _

She doesn’t bother with changing into pajamas or washing her makeup off her face, and instead drops onto her bed unceremoniously before snuggling halfway under the covers.

Jughead tugs the comforter the rest of the way over her body ( _ “you’re going to be cold, Betts” _ ) and carefully swipes a stray strand of blonde hair back from her face. Her eyes flutter shut, heavy from the pounds of makeup Veronica had layered onto her lids earlier in the night, and the last thing she remembers before she dreams of clouds and beanie-wearing boys is watching him climb out her bedroom window, the blacks and reds of his attire contrasting wildly with her pink wallpaper as he slips into the dark.

 

~~~

 

Betty doesn’t understand why the day after Halloween isn’t a national holiday. Like the day after the Superbowl. Doesn’t the government understand that nearly everybody and their mothers are going to be hungover as hell the next morning?

She doesn’t remember all that much from last night, just up until she started dancing on the dining room table, and then it all fades to black until she woke up this morning, eyes struggling to open at the sound of her alarm.

There’s extra concealer packed under her eyes and advil stashed in her backpack when she walks to school that morning, and the little bottle of pain relievers is down a few pills by lunch time.

She’s about to head to the cafeteria, but Veronica convinces her to walk the long way around and drop her off at band practice on her way. They can hear the boys arguing amicably from halfway down the hall, and the voices only get louder as the two girls approach the door.

“No, Arch. It’s a known fact that all movie sequels are trash. Producers take an idea that already has a following behind it and then put half the funds and effort into it because they don’t need to garner that initial interest.” He sounds sure of himself, like he’s put hours of thought into this one subject, and Betty laughs at him from the doorway.

He shoots her a stern look, but she can see the smile in his eyes. “What’s so funny, Betts?”

She shakes her head. “I agree with you, sequels are pretty much never as good as the original. But--”

He scowls now, hands on his hips. “I thought you were on my side.”

She laughs at him, and Archie joins her. “I am. But you have to admit that not every sequel is horrible. In fact, sometimes I like the second movie better than the first.”

His hands fly up to his chest just as they had when she’d told him that Red Vines and Twizzlers were the same thing. “For example?”

She shrugs, mentally running through the list of DVDs she has sitting on her TV stand at home. “Princess Diaries Two.”

Reggie suddenly trips over the wires connecting Veronica’s keyboard to the outlet, and the sound of him falling to the floor has Archie running over to that side of the rehearsal room. Jughead shoots Betty a small glare, “You’re lucky we’ve got more important things to attend to, Coop, or we’d be having a serious discussion about your life--and movie--choices right now,” he tells her before turning to check on his bandmate.

Veronica doesn’t move from where she’s examining her nails, but looks up in time to wave her best friend goodbye as she steps out of the room, smiling amusedly to herself.  
  


~~~

 

Snow days always start off the same way: with Weatherbee’s recorded message blasting throughout the Cooper house from the answering machine.

_ There’s no school today, there’s no school today. _

_ Because of snow _ .

The girls never minded that the phone always rang at six a.m.; the excitement of having a day off compensated for being woken up at such an ungodly hour.

When the phone had rung that morning, Betty had listened to the voicemail message play out while watching the snowflakes fall lazily outside of her window. The light of the street lamps had painted the scene outside in a shade of yellow, reminiscent of the amber filter that coats vintage photographs. She’d then shut off her school alarm and fallen back asleep until much later in the morning, when the sunlight had streamed in through the gaps in her light pink curtains. 

The oven’s digital clock reads 9:30 when Polly sets herself down at the kitchen island, cheeks bright and smile wide with excitement.

“Are you ready, Betty?”

The older sister flips a pancake over on the stove, and replies with a sleepy, “For what?”

“The snow! That’s the best part of a  _ snow  _ day, silly.”

Betty shrugs, turning to stack a few hot pancakes on a plate. “I was mainly just excited to catch a few more hours of sleep.”

Her sister sighs, disappointed, and nearly jumps out of her seat when the doorbell rings. Betty and Polly share a look. Alice is in bed, Hal is who knows where (and has the house keys), and they aren’t expecting anyone.

Betty leads the two of them out of the kitchen and through the corridor to the entrance, where she cautiously looks outside through the door’s peephole.

A little girl with braided pigtails sticking out from under a gray beanie stands outside, wooden sled at her feet. Betty sighs in relief. It’s just Jellybean.

She swings the door open, and then the six year old is barreling into the house, tracking ice and snow onto Alice’s hardwood floors. Betty knows her mother would have a heart attack if she saw the puddles of slush all around the house, and so she crouches down to stop the girl in her tracks.

“Hey, Jelly,” she says calmly while setting her hands out to keep the girl from wading any further inside, “do you think maybe we could take off your snow boots?”

“Sure!” she beams, and then falls backwards to the floor, hitting it hard. Betty’s worried she’s hurt herself, but Jellybean seems perfectly fine as she rips her boots off her feet and peels her mittens off her tiny little hands. She then stands up again and waddles into the kitchen, movements a bit obstructed by her puffy snow pants. “Are you ready, guys?!” she asks excitedly, reaching up to pluck a pancake from the plate on the counter.

“For what?” Betty counters for the second time that morning.

“The snow, Betty, obviously,” Jellybean rolls her eyes.

“See!” Polly screeches, head stuck inside the coat closet as she searches for her own snowsuit. “Everyone knows the snow is the most exciting part of a snow day.”

“We’re going sledding,” Jellybean chimes in after she swallows her last bite of pancake.

“We are? Since when?”

“Since Jughead got sick. S-I-C-K. Sick--that’s how you spell it.”

Polly holds a pile of winter clothes in her arms as she shuts the closet door with her foot and dumps it all onto the kitchen counter. Jellybean swats the blonde’s hand away when it tugs at her braids. “Nice, Jelly. Who taught you that one?”

“Jughead. Sick, sick, sick,” she repeats. “S-I-C-K.”

“Alright, Jelly,” Betty laughs, “I guess we’ll take you sledding then.”

The Jones girl finishes all of Betty’s pancakes while she waits for the two Cooper girls to get dressed.

They end up sledding down a few of the local golf course’s slopes. Technically, they’re trespassing on private property, but nobody seems to care. And if the kids’ toboggans do happen to leave a few marks in the wealthy golf club’s pristine lawns, that wouldn’t be so bad.

The girls take turns pushing each other downhill, and Jellybean’s screeches of excitement are only muffled by the snow she falls face-first into at the end of the ride.

Despite all the layers they’re wearing, and the hot packets Alice had insisted they slip into their mittens and socks, the girls all feel numb from the cold after a few hours, and Jellybean suggests they walk to her house for some hot cocoa ( _ “My mama makes the best in all the ‘dales” _ ).

FP has the fire burning by the time they reach the Joneses’, and the girls peel off their drenched clothes before huddling in front of the fireplace. The hand-chopped wood burns slowly, filling the living room with the smell of smoky pine and dewy moss.

Gladys hands all three girls steaming mugs of hot cocoa, marshmallows floating on clouds of whipped cream and peppermint candy straws peeking out from the top. Betty blows softly on her drink, not wanting to burn her tongue. Jellybean licks away all the whipped cream. Polly just sets her mug to the side, waiting for it to cool off on its own.

FP and Gladys step outside to shovel the driveway and sidewalks once the storm calms and only a few flurries are left to flutter to the ground. The door shuts behind them, a chilly breeze sneaking into the house, and Betty hears someone fiddling with the thermostat by the stairs. “Gah, it’s freezing in here,” comes an irritated voice, rough with disuse.

“Juggie, come sit with us!” Jellybean shouts in his direction. “It’s warmer by the fire.”

He seems to agree with her, as the next sound Betty hears is the padding of his feet approaching them. He certainly looks sick--a fluffy blanket sags over his shoulders and his fingers clutch tightly at a handful of crumpled tissues. His nose and eyes are both puffy and red, irritated by the cold.

Unfortunately, the warmth of the fire doesn’t seem to help, as his fingers still shake, teeth still chatter, and lips still appear to be a pale purple. He pulls the blanket tighter around himself and hunches over.

“Juggie, you’re sick. S-I-C-K,” Jellybean tells him, enunciating each letter. He nods shortly in agreement.

Betty watches as he starts shivering again and decides that he needs more layers than just a light throw blanket. He needs to go to bed, to lay under piles of comforters and quilts, and get some rest. She stands, setting her mug of cocoa on the nearby coffee table, and walks over to where he’s sitting on the floor. “Come on, Jug,” she stretches out a hand to help him up, “I’m bringing you to bed.”

He takes her hand weakly, and she puts all her effort into pulling him to stand up. His foot gets caught in the throw blanket hanging over him as they take their first step towards the stairs, and Betty’s arms rush to catch him; she feels an odd sense of deja-vu, but can’t place the memory.

He starts rambling halfway up the stairs, throwing out inconsequential words and phrases that she dismisses easily. Until she’s tucked him into bed, layering blanket after blanket that she’d grabbed from the linen closet in the hallway on top of him, and he sighs out, “My lips? Have you seen  _ your _ lips, Betts? Those are some fucking nice lips.”

She’s never heard him curse, and the swear word does something to her--conjures up images in her head that shouldn’t be there, especially not when she’s taking care of a sick person.

His temperature swings faster than Cheryl Blossom’s moods, and then he’s burning up against her hand, so she immediately purges all of those inappropriate thoughts from her head and rushes to the bathroom to run a hand towel under the faucet. Once she’s placed the damp rag on his forehead and ensured that he’s comfortable enough to fall asleep, she sets a box of tissues from the bathroom on his nightstand. She knows how irritating sleeping with a stuffy nose can be.

Right as she’s about to step away from beside him, his hand emerges from under the covers and grips her arm. “You are amazing, Betty,” he slurs, sounding halfway between drunk and drowsy, “thank you for playing doctor with me.”

She laughs lightly at his choice of words and shakes herself free of his grip. “No problem, Jug. But you should really go to sleep now.”

She swears she can feel his eyes on her as she turns the lights off and shuts his bedroom door behind her, her heart beating a bit faster in her chest.

 

~~~

 

Betty passes her driver’s test the day that Alice lets it slip that Hal has officially moved out of the house.

They’d been skimming through the day’s mail when a letter addressed to Hal Cooper had popped up in the pile, and Alice had set it aside with the other “Return to Sender”s. Betty had questioned the action, and Alice’s easy response had come as a shock to the both of them: “He doesn’t live here anymore, Betty.”

The elderly blonde’s eyes had widened, realizing what she’d said a second too late, and then she was clamping a hand over her mouth. “I--I didn’t mean for you to find out this way,” she’d managed to get out through her fingers. “I promise, Betty, I was going to tell you--both of you--but not like this.” Tears had begun welling in the corners of her eyes, and Betty’d been quick to comfort her.

“I’m not mad, mom. And Polly won’t be either. At least, not at you. But I think we’d both like to go see him, so please just tell me where he is.”

Betty had pinned his location on Google maps and thrown her new junior license into a small clutch before running outside to the car, driving a bit too fast down the roads of Riverdale to pick Polly up from her friend Michael’s house.

The two Cooper girls now find themselves sitting inside their father’s new apartment, a small single-bedroom in the recently renovated Greendale Gables complex. Betty sits on her hands to keep them from fidgeting, and Polly dunks her tea bag repeatedly, steadily, into the hot water of her mug (Betty had steadfastly refused Hal’s offer of “anything to drink”, but Polly had accepted it without a second thought).

“So girls,” her father starts, and she suddenly realizes that this is the first time they’re going to be having a conversation in months. His absence from her life hadn’t really bothered her these past few weeks, but the sudden finality of the situation--that he’s not coming back this time--really hits her hard. “How’s school been?”

Betty rolls her eyes. He would know if he’d been paying any attention. She stays silent, staring at the intricate weavings of the white quilt thrown over the arm of his couch. From what she’s seen so far, there’s not a single speck of pink in the whole apartment, and Betty doesn’t think that’s a mere coincidence.

Polly’s all too happy to fill him in about her transition into high school, how she’s enjoying freshman year so far. She events hints at wanting to try out for spring track, and Betty envies just how easily words seem to flow from her sister’s tongue. When Betty even attempts to open her mouth and tell him about  _ The Blue and Gold _ , her throat constricts and suddenly she can’t breathe.

Once Polly’s finished her overly detailed retelling of the school year thus far, the room quiets for a few awkward beats, and then Hal volunteers some information about his own new life in Greendale ( _ “The biggest difference is the fog. It’s like it just magically disappears when you cross the border, and then you can breathe a bit easier.” _ ).

Betty doesn’t say anything the whole time they’re there, other than a quiet “Bye, Dad,” as the two girls are being pushed out the door, and continues to stay silent the whole ride home. She’s angry at her father, at his lack of effort. There’s no denying that her parents’ marriage has fizzled out, but that doesn’t give him the right to distance himself from his daughters all of a sudden. That doesn’t give him the right to not care anymore.

She stays angry all night and into the early morning, features stoic as she brews herself some coffee with her breakfast, but the dam breaks when she steps foot inside the halls of Riverdale High.

A poster advertising the hockey team’s car wash fundraiser heavily features a 1970 Ford Bronco, one of the many types of cars Betty and her father had worked on many summers ago, and she feels the tears dripping down her cheeks before she realizes that she’s been crying.

She quickly ducks inside the _ Blue and Gold _ office, thinking it the best place to regain a hold on her emotions without anyone seeing her, but instead finds Jughead staring worriedly at her from behind his laptop on Mrs. Warner’s desk. She’s about to turn around and run away from him in the same manner she had back in ninth grade, when his voice stops her.

“Betty, wait, tell me what’s going on. Please. What’s wrong?” He walks towards her, arms open and waiting, and she feels herself being drawn towards him. Her feet move in his direction of their own accord, and then she’s in his arms, face buried in his chest.

She pulls back when she realizes that her tears must be ruining his shirt, but he just holds her tighter. That makes the tears fall harder, and then she’s sobbing out, “My dad moved out, Juggie, and he isn’t coming back.”

She’s worried he’s going to laugh and let her go, tell her that Hal leaving is a stupid reason to be crying this much. But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he rests his chin on top of her blonde head, lets out an empathetic hum, and brings a delicate finger to her cheeks to lightly brush away the tears.

He doesn’t let her go even when the bell signaling the start of first period rings, and then they’re both officially late to class. Betty doesn’t mind the “tardy” note that gets marked in Ms. Martinez’s attendance book later that day. It’s worth it.

 

~~~

 

As much as Alice loves her daughters and their company, Betty knows that she’s been depressingly lonely ever since Hal moved out. Which is why when Gladys invites the three Cooper girls over for Christmas Eve dinner her mother accepts without a second thought.

Alice is currently helping Gladys finish up in the kitchen, and FP sits on the living room couch, watching as the kids decorate the Christmas tree.

Polly’s just tied the end of a streamer of silver tinsel around a very high branch, and now holds the other end in her hands while she runs in circles around the living room like a crazed woman, laughing as the string follows her path and wraps itself around the tree on its way down.

Betty’s busy stringing some popcorn together, but gives it up when the task turns out to be more frustratingly labor-intensive than she’d anticipated it to be. She rises from the armchair she’d been working in and moves towards the cardboard box full of the Joneses’ Christmas ornaments, taking a few red baubles into her hands.

Jughead and Jellybean focus all their attention on the most important decoration: the star tree topper. The Joneses had picked a tree much too tall for Jellybean to place the star on top by herself, even while on a chair, so Jughead offers to help her out.

She’s still standing on one of the dining room chairs that Jughead had dragged over when he turns around so his back faces her and crouches low to the ground.  “Hop on, ‘Bean,” he urges, holding his hands above his shoulders to steady her. The little girl swings a small leg over his right shoulder, then his left, and then she’s squealing when he stands up slowly, and she soars into the air with him.

“Juggie,” she giggles, “I’m going to fall!”

“Just hold on tight, alright?” Her fingers grip onto his hair as he turns to face the tree again. “Hey Betty, could you pass her the star? It’s on the little end table,” he vaguely points behind him to a wooden stand by the couch that holds a small lamp and a cactus plant, and as of right now a glittery star.

She picks it up and sends it Jelly’s way, and then Betty and Polly continue placing little ornaments and candy canes on the fir’s branches.

They eat dinner while the adults bombard them with questions about school, and finals, and Jughead’s plans for the future. Apparently he’s waiting to hear back from a few schools in late March. The thought of his leaving pains Betty’s heart, but she brushes the feeling aside when FP turns the conversation over to her.

“Any idea where you’re going to apply next year, Betty?”

And so it’s begun, she thinks. All anyone’s going to ask her about for the next year and a half is going to be college, and she’s already sick of it. Jughead must see the annoyance in her face, because he quickly clears his throat, and then adds, “Uh, speaking of school, Kevin told me he saw Moose Mason start a food fight during lunch last week by throwing a slice of pizza at Dilton for being a smartass. I wish he’d gotten it on video, so that  _ The Blue and Gold _ could have had a primary source to credit in the article about it.”

So the conversation shifts to the newspaper and Jughead’s plans to study journalism in the future, and Betty shoots him a tight-lipped yet grateful smile from across the table. He nods back, nearly imperceptibly. Then he shoves another forkful of maple-glazed ham into his mouth and dinner continues without another mention of school, or college, or the unnerving future.

After, the parents stay in the dining room, drinking, just like they always had all those years ago when Hal still came to family events. Polly’s running barefoot through the halls with Hotdog trailing behind her, slower and seemingly more tired than Betty remembers him to be.

Jellybean sits in between Betty’s legs on the couch with the coffee table pulled up right in front of her. She’d begged Betty to teach her how to play chess, and now the two girls are a united front against their biggest chess-playing foe: Jughead Jones.

He sits in an armchair, also placed right by the coffee table, and grins a bit wider every time Betty lets her six year old partner move a piece right into his trap.

It doesn’t matter that he wins by a landslide every single game--as long as Betty can still hear her mother’s joyous laugh ring out every now and again from down the hall, nothing is going to ruin her night.

 

~~~

 

The first week of March goes in with an animal much more ferocious than a lion--the SAT, to be exact.

Betty’s visibly stressed out during her and Veronica’s FaceTime call the Thursday before the exam: Her undereye bags have upgraded from Gucci to Prada, her ponytail hangs low on her head, and her eyes are red from staring at the same questions over and over again.

“You look terrible, B,” her best friend tells her from across the computer screen, concern in her voice.

“Gee, thanks, Ron,” Betty replies with a roll of her eyes and grips the pen in her hand harder.

“I just meant that you look like you need a break, Betty,” Veronica huffs. “And that gives me the best idea ever.” Suddenly, the raven-haired girl perks up, no longer worried about the dozens of math problems she still has to finish for class tomorrow. “I’m picking you up for school tomorrow, okay?”

Betty can’t do anything but nod her head in agreement--there’s no escaping Veronica Lodge and her wicked ways.

And wicked they most certainly are; as soon as Betty shuts the door to Veronica’s town car the next morning, Smithers is peeling out of the Coopers’ driveway and heading in the opposite direction of the high school.

“Ron, where are we going?” she sighs, slumping in the plush leather seat. She’s already dealt with too much this week and doesn’t have the energy for another one of Veronica’s escapades.

“The mall, Betty!” Veronica squeals with glee as Smithers drives the car onto the highway. “Some retail therapy is exactly what we need to destress before the exam tomorrow.” And then she’s rummaging through her purse, beaming when she finds whatever it is she was looking for. “And there’s another surprise.”

Betty groans.  _ Another? _

“Daddy bought us tickets to the Shawn Mendes concert in the city,” she reveals, waving the two tickets around excitedly. “So we’re buying some outfits to go to that. All on Daddy’s card, of course.”

Betty laughs. She definitely hadn’t been expecting that. A Shawn Mendes concert and some new clothes, all at Hiram Lodge’s expense? How could she refuse? “Suddenly, I’m not feeling half-bad about skipping school today.”

“That’s the spirit!” Veronica happily bumps Betty’s shoulder with her own, and then she’s guiding Smithers towards a parking spot in the corner of the mall’s garage; the sign in front of it reads “Reserved: Lodge Industries”.

The girls’ first stop is the food court, where Veronica buys them both a breakfast of boba tea and churros. Their next stop is a Justice store that they’d spotted on the escalator down to the second floor and had decided to visit purely for nostalgia’s sake. Betty remembers that all the girls wore rainbow sparkle and peace sign everything back in fourth grade, although Alice had never let her buy into the trend. She’d been upset at the time, but now she can only thank her mother for saving her from such disastrous fashion choices.

Stepping into the store is like rewinding the clock back to 2009, and Veronica immediately starts pulling out clothes from various racks and holding them up for Betty to see. A black t-shirt features two anthropomorphic rainbow-colored popsicles on the front, and the girls read out the dialogue in hysterics.

“You’re poppin!” Veronica screams out into the store.

“You’re chillin!” Betty answers back, holding her stomach from the laughter. The employee shoots the girls a withering look, and then Veronica’s hanging the shirt back on the rack and grabbing a bunch of headbands from a nearby bin.

She slides one on, and then turns to face Betty. The holographic fabric contrasts with her raven hair, drawing even more attention to the unicorn horn sticking out from between two horse ears and surrounded by a small crown. “I’m a unicorn princess now, Betty,” she proclaims, spinning in her heels.

“You always were, Ron,” Betty laughs as Veronica trips over herself and knocks over a stand of sunglasses, and then the employee’s approaching them with a death glare.

“Run, Betty!” Her best friend shouts, ripping the unicorn headband out of her hair and throwing it to the ground. “The palace guards have found out we’re imposters!” She grips Betty’s hand in hers, and then both girls are running out of the store and towards Abercrombie.

Veronica’s out of breath by the time they find the men’s section, and then she’s wrinkling her nose at the smell when she breathes in deep. “They’re not going to find us in here, B. I don’t think anyone would willingly step foot in this store other than a few teenage boys looking to get laid.”

Another retail worker shoots a glare at them, having overheard her, and Veronica rolls her eyes. “This is why people shop online more and more nowadays,” she huffs loudly, “and then eventually all these losers are going to have to find real jobs.”

“Out!” They hear, and then the girls are on the run again.

Eventually, they find refuge in a Lucky Brand store, where the employees don’t seem too bothered by Veronica’s antics, and--more importantly--where the clothes are deemed acceptable enough for concert attire by the Lodge princess.

Betty tries on at least twenty different tops before Veronica approves of one--a striped off-the-shoulder shirt that she can easily tuck into a pair of skinny jeans. She decides on an overpriced black denim mini skirt for herself, and then throws in a few pairs of sunglasses that catch her eye while in line for the register.

They stop by Ben & Jerry’s for a late lunch consisting solely of ice cream and sprinkles before finding Smithers in the parking lot. He drives the girls to school, where Betty grabs a few No. 2 pencils from the pencil case in her locker, and then the two of them set out on their daily walk to Betty’s house as soon as the last bell rings.

When Alice asks her how the school day went at dinner later that night, Betty responds with a noncommittal, “Great,” and turns the conversation over to Polly when the guilt sitting low in her stomach forces her mouth shut.

As she’s bubbling in her name on the SAT answer sheet the next morning, clear-headed and focused, the guilt goes away.

 

~~~

 

Betty doesn’t understand how her sister does it.

She’s currently sprinting on an icy track in a tank top and light leggings, running her part of the 4x400 relay race. Betty and her mother, on the other hand, are covered from head to toe, hats covering their ears and fluffy blankets draped over their legs as they sit in Riverdale High’s stands.

It’s mid March, and the sun shining above them does nothing to abate the bitter cold of early spring. Betty would typically be home, doing her homework at her desk, at four in the evening on a weekday. Instead, she’s attending Spring Track’s one and only home meet of the season, cheering her sister on from the sidelines.

Polly runs by them, faster than Betty could ever dream to be and certainly faster than most other freshman girls, and Alice jumps up from her seat. “Go Polly!” she cries, waving her hands in the air. “Run, honey, run!” The harsh wind blows her blonde hair back and it whips at the side of her face, but she brushes it away easily with a quick flick of her hand.

Betty looks up at her mother from where she’s still sitting on the cold metal bench, wearing clothes in blue and gold to support the team--she’s never seen her this happy, genuinely beaming with pride for her daughter. Betty knows she should feel the same--proud and excited for her sister, which she definitely is--but her heart drops a bit lower in her chest every time she looks to her left, only to find an empty seat where her father should be.

But then, when Polly’s running up the stand’s staircase to show off her first ever gold medal, and Alice envelops both her daughters in a hug so tight that the tears of happiness on her cheeks drip down her chin and into Betty’s hair, Betty decides that there’s no room for her father anymore. The three of them are more than enough.

 

~~~

 

April, Betty finds, is much more predictable than March. Rain clouds crowd in over the little suburban town, delivering the torrential downpour that had been forecasted weeks ago.

On the first day of the month, Veronica picks her up for school in her little town car--just as she had a few weeks ago--except that this time they drive towards the high school instead of away from it, windshield wipers flipping back and forth wildly to brush away all the rain.

They park as close to the entrance as possible and run inside under the cover of a pair of useless umbrellas--the howling wind keeps blowing the water sideways. Veronica guides the both of them upstairs to the cafeteria, toeing off her designer rain boots and switching them out for a pair of Manolo Blahniks along the way.

A lone head of ginger hair sits at a circular table in the far corner of the large dining hall, and Veronica follows it like a moth to a very fiery flame. She pecks Archie’s cheek before sliding into a seat next to him, and then Betty pulls out a chair across the table from the both of them.

A plate of chocolate chip pancakes sits half-eaten in front of him, and he idly rips off a few pieces as he listens to Veronica’s rant about the humidity frizzing up her hair. “It looks great, babe,” he tells her simply, shrugging.

Veronica huffs, crossing her arms, and only looks away from where she’s staring Dilton Doiley into the ground when the fourth member of their very own Breakfast Club approaches, drenched.

Oddly, despite the fact that his gray beanie had done nothing to protect his luscious hair from the rain--resulting in some water-logged locks dripping water all down his face--a brilliant smile lights up his features. Archie turns quickly in his seat and then thrusts his hand out to meet Jughead’s for a light fistbump with a loud, “I’m so proud of you, Jug. Northwestern’s journalism program is no joke, man.”

Shit, Northwestern. Betty had totally forgotten that Regular Decision acceptances came back last night. And, from the looks of it, he’d gotten in.

“I’m so happy for you, Jug,” she tells him as sincerely as she can muster. And she really is. She just hadn’t realized that he was leaving Riverdale--leaving  _ her _ \--so soon. And that starts her day off worse than the rain.

 

~~~

 

This time, it’s Veronica’s turn to ask Archie to junior prom. They’ve been dating for close to a year now, and so the fear of rejection isn’t nearly as prevalent as it had been last year.

As with everything, Veronica’s solution is to fly in some cupcakes from New York, hand-frosted to spell out “Prom?”. She has them carried into the auditorium on a sterling silver platter after the jazz band’s annual concert, and the remaining audience members cheer the young couple on when Archie accepts.

That night, Betty makes sure the curtains in her bedroom are drawn tight--she doesn’t want to accidentally look out across the yard into her neighbor’s window and catch a glimpse of all that is unholy.

Veronica’s on a high for the rest of the week, and Archie seems just as excited. Betty’s happy for them--she  _ is _ \--but the fact that she won’t be getting any roses, or songs, or cupcakes, sends her in a bit of a tailspin.

Of course she’s not going to be getting any of that. It’s her turn to ask this year, to finally tell Jughead how she feels about him. And if she gets flat out rejected, well--he’s leaving soon anyways.

It’s late on a Thursday afternoon. Kevin and Ethel have already submitted their articles for this month’s paper, and so the only two left in the office are herself and Jughead, who sits hunched over at Mrs. Warner’s desk, intensely proofreading Ethel’s advice column.

He’s left her to work on the formatting and headlines before it all gets sent to print tomorrow, and so she’s been diligently working away at her laptop, screen turned away from him, for the past hour. 

“Hey, Juggie?” Her fingers still on the keyboard. “I’m done if you want to come check it out.”

He looks up to catch her eye, and she holds back a laugh when she spots a streak of red ink across his cheek. Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair, immediately fixing his beanie afterwards, and then lets out a reluctant, “Yeah. Yes, one sec. Ethel’s writing is driving me a bit nuts, if you couldn’t tell.” He drops his red pen onto the desk as he stands and the tip breaks, splattering ink all over his clothes.

This time, Betty does let out a chuckle, and he frowns, unamused.

“It’s really not that funny, Betts.”

“Oh, but it really is, Jug.”

“Fine,” he sighs again, approaching her, “let’s see what you’ve got.” He leans over her shoulder to examine the document on her laptop, and slowly reads the bolded headline aloud: “Local Boy Asked to Prom: Will He Say Yes?” Confusion morphs his features, eyes wide and brow furrowed. “Betts, that isn’t the article--”

“Just keep reading, Juggie, please,” she begs, voice soft and fragile, about to break.

His eyes skim past the byline (“By BETTY COOPER”) to read the rest of the article (a fluff piece about how a certain blonde has just asked Jughead to his first dance) but he doesn’t say anything else, not for a while. Betty chips away at her peachy nail polish, eyes focused on the floor instead of his face. The silence sits for too long, and then she starts rambling as nerves build in her chest.

“I- I know it’s not really your scene, Jug, I do. I mean, you didn’t even go to prom last year, so why would you go with me now? But I thought maybe-” she shakes her head quickly, still not looking over at him, “No, nevermind. Um, just forget about it, okay? Really. I’ll just switch the article out for Kevin’s…” she’s frantic now, pulling the laptop closer to her chest and blinking rapidly.

But then he lightly turns her head to face him with a finger at her chin, and asks, “What? Going to prom with you? Totally on my bucket list,” with a soft smile.

Her eyes widen, glimmering with unshed tears, and she’s gasping for breath. “Really?”

“Yeah, Betts,” he kneels on the floor so that they’re at eye level, and reaches for her hand. “It took me a second to figure out what was going on, but of course I’ll go to prom with you.” He pauses, seemingly trying to sort his thoughts out for a bit, and then smiles wider. “Don’t you know I would do anything for you, Betty Cooper?”

She lets him continue running his thumb back and forth over her knuckles, but pulls back a bit. “No, I don’t know that. Because up until this year, you acted like I was invisible.”

His smile falters, the corners of his lips slipping, and then he sighs. “You hear all these fairytale stories when you’re little, and then when you find your very own princess, you have to ask yourself: Am I the knight she wants? The knight she deserves?”

She laughs, disbelieving, and hiccups out through bursts of giggles, “Did you just use a princess analogy to explain why you’ve ignored me all our lives?” The tears from before finally fall, this time out of pure joy. He looks affronted, and that keeps her going. “I always knew you were dramatic, but God, Jug, that was bad.”

He huffs, “Fine. To put it simply, Mom would always talk about how great you were. The straight-A student and the caring sister, the little blonde full of sunshine and love. And it was so painfully obvious that she was trying to push me towards you that I had to step away--teenage rebellion and all that,” he rolls his eyes at himself. “But you’re also the girl who trips every other step when she’s drunk, and the girl who bakes cupcakes for a birthday-hater on his special day, and the girl who teaches Jellybean how to lose at chess.”

“Hey!” she protests, smacking his chest lightly.

He catches her hand in his, and smiles wide. “All of that is you. And all of that is why I like you, Betts.”

“So, basically what you’re saying is that you’ll go to prom with me?”

He looks startled, having completely forgotten about that part. “Um, sure, Betts. But really I was--”

“That’s all I wanted to know, Jug. Save the sermon for church.” She grabs her laptop off the desk and swings her bag over her shoulder, sending him a quick wink as she walks out the door.

He follows her into the hall, surprised but mostly amused, and she waves at him over her shoulder with a quick, “I’ll see you tomorrow. And I expect a full report on which tailor shop has the best tuxes around on my desk by tomorrow morning, alright?”

“Sure, Betts,” she hears him chuckle from behind her. When she walks out of the building that day, her heart’s never felt so full.

Betty Cooper likes Jughead Jones. And he likes her back.

 

~~~

 

She’d been joking about the report, but Jughead finds her at her locker before Spanish the next morning and holds up a thick stack of papers in front of her. “Your full report: the best tux shops, florists, and bakeries around.”

“Bakeries?” she questions, running a hand through the ends of her ponytail.

“We’re not going to prom without getting food first, Betts. And I didn’t think you’d want to dance near a guy with burger breath--so Pop’s is out.”

“What about Poppy’s?” She laughs to herself, shoving her last notebook into her bag.

“What is it with you and Poppy’s?”

She shuts her locker, shakes her head in response, and jumps up to hug him tight (the height difference has her standing high on her tiptoes). He seems a bit taken aback, but then his arms come to wrap around her waist, and she smiles into his sweater.

She’s still smiling when Ms. Martinez passes out a pop quiz in Spanish, and completely ignores Raj Patel’s questioning glance from across the classroom.

Jughead shows up at the Coopers’ front door with a white rose corsage and box of pastries from Angel Bakery.

He and Polly have gotten through half the cream puffs by the time Betty hikes up her prom dress to descend the stairs without tripping, and then he’s choking on a bite of chocolate croissant when she steps into view.

Polly’s all too happy to slap him on the back a few times, and warns under her breath, “If you harm even a hair on her head, I won’t try to keep you alive next time,” and then he’s coughing, gasping for air.

Once he’s breathing steadily once again, and Betty’s face is a bit more relaxed, he pulls her towards him with a, “You look like a fairy princess, Betts.”

She twirls, her emerald green gown flaring out a bit, and then she’s laughing. “A princess deserving of a knight in shining armor, I’d say.”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you really going to hold that against me?”

“For the rest of our young lives, my dear Juggie.”

Alice Cooper demands pictures of the couple, and Betty can feel just how uncomfortable he is by the way his arm wraps tightly around her waist, fingers playing with the silky material of her dress nervously, and so she cuts the photo shoot short after a couple of camera clicks with a stern look directed towards her mother.

Archie picks them up in his pickup truck, with Veronica in the passenger seat looking like she’s worth at least triple the price of the pearls around her neck, and Jughead holds Betty’s hand in the back seats throughout the whole ride to the high school.

She’d thought the camera had been the issue, but when he grips her hand harder as they walk through the gym doors, Betty realizes it’s the whole event that’s making him nervous. He doesn’t say as much, obviously, but she can tell.

Kevin greets them at a table where Betty drops her clutch onto one of the surrounding chairs, and offers her a few chips off his plate. She declines, but Jughead perks up at the food; she sends him off towards the snacks table with a small peck to the cheek and an, “I’d love some punch, Juggie,” whispered into his ear.

Once she turns back to Kevin, a sly grin splits his face in half, and his hands are clapped together. “Look at you, Betty, with a senior on your arm!”

She sighs, but still smiles. “It’s not like that, Kev.”

“Of course not, but Ethel still owes me fifteen bucks. So thanks for the cash, Betts.”

“What cash?” Jughead asks, returning with two cups of punch and a paper plate stacked with chips and pretzels.

“The cash I owe him,” Ethel replies, suddenly appearing out of thin air with a wad of singles in her hands. Kevin takes it all from her, and examines every individual dollar with glee.

“Guess who’s going to the strip club soon!” he shouts out, voice muffled by the DJ’s newest pick. He slides the money into the inner pocket of his navy blue tuxedo, and then leads Ethel away by the arm.

Jughead still looks confused as he watches the pair walk over to Dilton’s table, so Betty softly explains: “They bet on us, Jug.”

“They bet on us?” Her answer has the opposite of a calming effect, and he seems more nervous than before. He’s constantly tugging his beanie lower on his head and pulling at the curl that hangs over his right eye, and Betty decides she’s had enough. She’s not about to put him through hell for an entire night.

She tugs on the lapels of his jacket, lowering his head closer to hers, and whispers in his ear. “I’ve got something I want to show you.” He looks surprised, and a bit intrigued, so she continues. “Follow me.”

He lets her pull him around the gym by the hand, ducking under a few low-hanging streamers and passing by some drunk girls stumbling around in their heels, until they’re out in the hallway, alone.

Dr. Byrn, the old music theory teacher meant to be monitoring the halls for any deserters, is passed out in a chair by the water fountain, and Betty shushes her partner with a finger to her lips as they sneak by him towards the  _ Blue and Gold. _ She pulls a bobby pin out of the braid pulling part of her side-bangs back, and unlocks the door with her other hand still trapped in his.

“ _ The Blue and Gold _ , Betts? What’s so special about this place?” She pulls him inside before locking the door behind her, and then he asks, eyes wide, “What’s going on?”

She shrugs as she steps out of her heels. “Nothing, I just noticed you weren’t too comfortable out there. So I thought we’d continue our night in here.”

“I was perfectly fine out there, Betty, really,” he protests weakly.

“No, you weren’t. And that’s fine. Great, even. I’d rather be in here with you than out there being bet on like a racehorse, to be honest.”

She watches his chest rise and fall with a sigh of relief, and then he’s leaning back against the desk, legs crossed in a way that makes her mouth water. The beginning notes to the acoustic version of Sam Smith’s “Latch” filter in through the office door from the gym, and Betty stretches her hand out towards him.

“Just because we’re not out there with everyone else doesn’t mean I don’t want to dance with you, Juggie.”

He grabs her hand, pulling her into his chest, and she giggles when he dips her over his arm, leaning down to look into her eyes. “I’ll always dance with you, Betts,” he whispers as he pulls her back into him, both arms hugging her waist now.

 

_I feel we're close enough_ __  
_Could I lock in your love?_ __  
_I feel we’re close enough_ __  
_Could I lock in your love?_ __  
__  
_Now I’ve got you in my space_ __  
_I won’t let go of you_ __  
_Got you shackled in my embrace_ _  
_ __I’m latching on to you

 

They rock slowly around the room, navigating around desks and chairs and stacks of printed papers, laughing when Betty’s dress gets caught underneath her feet and they both stumble into the door with Jughead pressed firmly against her.

His nose is close enough to rub delicately against hers, and she catches him glancing at her lips before his ice blue gaze falls back onto her emerald one.  _ Fuck it _ , she thinks when the fingers digging into her waist start to travel over her stomach.

He’s breathing hard, and then not at all when she reaches up to connect her lips to his. They’re chapped, she notices as he presses his lips back into hers, but the feeling of them under her tongue sets a smoldering fire burning low in her stomach, and she moans into his mouth.

Suddenly, Dr. Byrn’s snores cut through the sound of their heavy breathing, and Betty jumps away from the door, startled.

And then Jughead’s lips are slowly pulling away from hers, and she groans in protest.

“Betty--Betts,” he steps back now, shuffling slightly. “Somebody’s going to hear us, baby.” Her eyes open wide, shocked, and he seems just as surprised at his choice of words as she is. “I mean--” he struggles to speak again.

“I liked it, Jug, don’t worry,” she assures him, running her fingers down the hard planes of his chest over his white undershirt. “But ‘girlfriend’ works too, you know.”

“Really? Just like that?” He’s staring intently at her, as if looking for any indication that she means otherwise, but he doesn’t seem to find it because then he tells her, softer than she’s ever heard him, “I’d love to be your boyfriend, Betts.”

“But you’re leaving next year,” she whispers, voice cracking.

“Doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head to dispel the negative thoughts. “We’ll make it work, alright?”

She nods, happy tears glistening in her eyes, and then his lips are back on hers and they no longer care about waking up the teacher in the hallway.

 

~~~

 

He doesn’t ask her to his prom.

He still shows up at the Coopers’ front door, but this time with a bouquet of white roses and his own method of transportation--the same motorcycle that had brought them to the little bookstore in Greendale not too long ago.

Alice Cooper doesn’t get any pictures this time, because Betty runs out of the house while her mother is busy setting the flowers in some water in the kitchen, shutting the door behind her with a loud “I’ll be home before eleven!”

She’s a lot more comfortable on the back of his bike this time, and she closes her eyes as the wind sweeps through her curls, which she’d purposely left down.

He drives right by the high school, by the line of cars waiting to drop off couples for the night, and Betty waves over at Veronica and Archie before they disappear inside the building hand in hand.

The motorcycle speeds up as they distance themselves from the chaos of the school and only slows around a few twists and turns in the road. Betty tries to remember where this particular street leads to, as Jughead hadn’t told her much about his plans for the night other than “it’ll be more memorable than prom, babe”.

It turns out that his intended destination is the Twilight Drive-In, and Betty’s about to ask where the hell they’re going to be watching a movie from when she spots a huge picnic blanket in the empty parking lot, lit up by a string of battery-powered fairy lights.

She’s running towards it as soon as the bike comes to a stop and falls onto the many pillows he’d brought for them to lay against with a content sigh. She watches him set up the kickstand before he saunters over to her, a smug smile on his face.

“You like it?” He drops to lay next to her, gazing up at the stars, and then turns his head to softly kiss her temple.

She hums, “I don’t know if it gets any better than this.”

That has him sitting up and reaching over to where a little remote had been hidden behind buckets of buttery popcorn and packages of red licorice (of both the Red Vine and Twizzler variety), and then he clicks the “Play” button and the big screen lights up.

“What are we watching, Jug?”

He stays quiet for a minute, and when she turns to look over at him there’s a smirk plastered on his face.

“What?”

“Princess Diaries 2,” he states simply, and watches with amused eyes as she bursts into laughter.

“Have you even seen the first one?”

He slings an arm over her shoulders and tucks her in closer to him. “Watched it just for you, Betts.”

 

~~~

 

Riverdale High’s graduation ceremonies are always held outside in the summer heat, and Betty’s one-hundred percent sure every single senior is sweating through their gowns.

She and Jellybean keep from melting under the sun by fanning themselves in the stands. Gladys had offered Betty a seat by the rest of his family, and the blonde had gratefully accepted it without a second thought. She’d already been planning on attending her boyfriend’s graduation, and doing so surrounded by his family would be even more special.

The students are called up to the stage for their diplomas in alphabetical order, and Betty laughs when Fred Andrews busts out the air horns as Principal Weatherbee announces Archie’s name.

She’s still smiling by the time Weatherbee’s calling up the Js, but a few tears drop when Jughead stands to accept his diploma. She’s happy for him, of course, but she can’t help it; he’s leaving her so soon,  _ too _ soon--especially after being together for such little time.

A stubborn brick of dread settles low in her stomach, and Betty can’t ignore it until he’s kissing down her neck later that night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that super long chapter!
> 
> It took a lot out of me (and Dottie) to get it done in such a short amount of time, so I'd really love any feedback you have. Questions, comments, concerns--send 'em my way.
> 
> Real life gets pretty busy starting this weekend, so I'm not sure how soon the next update will be out. Follow me on tumblr (@[writeraquamarinara](https://writeraquamarinara.tumblr.com)) for teasers and any other updates. Or just come on over and chat with me.
> 
> I love you all very much. Thank you for reading!


	5. 12th Grade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Long time no see, and I’m terribly sorry about that. I moved countries and started university, both of which took a lot out of me and left very little time for fic and fandom, unfortunately.
> 
> But I’m back! And just in time for Lili’s birthday, too! This universe of ours works in the most wonderful of ways.
> 
> A big thank you to my wife and beta Dottie. Honestly, this chapter would not be done by now if not for her. <3
> 
> ALSO, before you proceed any further, please take note of the change in rating. Yes, I did try my hand at smut for the first time ever (go easy on me, please), and I’d love to get some feedback on that, but if any of you are uncomfortable reading smut then skip over the sections outlined with two squiggly line breaks, like this:
> 
> ~~~  
> ~~~
> 
> The smutty sections aren’t too central to the plot, so it’s totally fine to skip over them if that’s what you want to do.
> 
> Now that we’ve gone over all of that, please enjoy!

Betty’s always wanted time to go faster.

The faster the years would go by, the faster she could get away from Riverdale and its pep. The faster she grew up, the faster all those childish problems would fade away.

But this summer, when she wants time to freeze for once--when she wants the universe to hold still for just a little bit longer--the days go by at a dizzying speed.

Jughead, for his part, tries to blow a bubble around them, shielding them from the real world and the inevitable.

They spend the hot summer days down at Sweetwater, picnicking on the river rocks, wading into the water hand in hand. Sometimes they bring Hotdog with them, the old sheepdog just lying asleep under the shade of the nearest maple tree.

Betty wishes she could be so relaxed. She’s constantly fidgeting: adjusting her bathing suit ties, smoothing down her ponytail, reapplying sunscreen.

She watches Jughead dip his feet into the calm water in a little part of the river that’s been naturally sectioned off from the rushing stream by a dam of rocks. His back glistens under the midday sun, especially shiny where Betty had rubbed in some lotion. She has the sudden urge to drag her nails down the gorgeous skin and so lifts her Audrey Hepburn-style sunglasses off of the bridge of her nose before lazily sauntering up behind him.

He must hear her coming, gravel crunching under her toes, because he turns around to send her a wicked smile.

“Betty Cooper, you are a sight for sore eyes.”

She giggles, “You saw me a minute ago, Jug.”

“Well, they’re tired from staring at the sun for a whole minute. And you are  _ exactly  _ what they need to recover.”

She smacks his chest lightly and then interlocks her hands at the back of his neck when he draws her in closer. “That might be one of the cheesiest lines I’ve ever heard,” she whispers, breath blowing over his lips as the tips of their noses brush each other.

His hands grip her hips, one wandering around her back to lightly grab her ass, and she falls further into him. Fingers trailing down to the tops of her thighs, she giggles when both of his hands move to pick her up.

They travel slowly, clumsily, into the water, her legs squeezing tighter around him every time he stumbles over another pebble, but they finally manage to sink into the small pool without incident. He runs his fingers up and down her back, kneading at the knots in her shoulders, and she sighs into his neck. They kiss lightly, sweetly, as if the world will stop turning as long as their lips remain connected, and stay in the water for hours after both of their hands are pruned up and water-logged. Her legs never stray from his waist.

 

~~~

 

Unlike most of the other incoming college freshman, Jughead leaves for school after Riverdale High starts up again. Northwestern’s calendar year begins a month later than seemingly everyone else’s, and so the Joneses are set to leave on September 19th.

Betty’s forced to spend--no,  _ waste _ \--seven hours of every precious weekday in the hellhole that is high school, but Jughead makes sure that they still get as much time together as possible.

His bike sits parked on the street outside the Cooper household while the two of them eat breakfast together every morning, Jughead scarfing down Alice’s scrambled eggs as if he hasn’t eaten since the last morning instead of since his midnight snack just before bed.

Betty tightens the strap of her helmet until it’s scratching at her chin, but that’s how she likes it. Sure, holding onto Jughead as they navigate the streets of their little town is safe enough, but she still likes the physical reminder of protection.

At least she doesn’t have to worry about how her head’s going to crack open if some Bulldog bastard runs them off the road--instead, she can focus all her nervous energy on the fact that each ride is one step closer to losing him.

On September 18th, her birthday, he’s waiting for her after school like always, leather jacket on even in the humid summer heat. But, unlike every other day, he bypasses Elm Street for Forest Lane, a shady back road carved through clusters of trees that leads all the way to Greendale.

The door to the bookshop reads “Closed for Private Event,” and Betty backs away. “We can’t, Jug.” She points to the sign, finger shaky. “Thank you for trying, really, but Maurice--”

He doesn’t let her finish, strong hand coming up to grasp hers, and then he’s barreling his way through the door.  _ How had he known it would be unlocked? _

It hits her slowly, gradually, like the light drizzle before a rainstorm, and then she finally gets it. The streamers along the staircase bannister. The confetti lining the floors. The strings of balloons weighed down by stacks of novels. They’re all for her. He did this for her. Her toes curl as a spark of joy works its way up her spine.

“I thought you weren’t really a birthday guy,” she whispers, half expecting to be startled by a crowd of her family and friends all jumping out from behind the nearest bookcase with a “Surprise!”

But nobody pops out except for Maurice, who whirls around to face them from behind his check-out counter. A small little cupcake rests in his palm, and the smile lines draw together on his face.

“I’m not. But everyone deserves free sweets at least once a year,” he replies before dropping a kiss into her hair.

“Happy Birthday, my girl!” Maurice greets, handing her the cupcake. It’s covered in red frosting shaped into a rose, and Betty smiles down at the treat.

“We should all split it,” she declares, already peeling away the wrapper.

Jughead groans from beside her, and his voice is low and gravely when he grumbles, “Don’t tempt me, Betts. You eat the cupcake--it’s all yours--and I’ll go look through some books. Then you can come join me, alright?”

She nods, mouth too full of cupcake by now to even mumble out an “okay,” and he smiles at her as he walks over to their favorite spot: the arm chairs.

“Any book you want, it’s yours,” Maurice tells her quietly before he gets back to reading in his swivel chair, feet propped up on the small wooden step-stool he pulls out on occasion to reach the higher shelves.

She admires the rows and stacks of books around her with newfound wonder, inhaling to let the smell of ink on ancient paper reach her lungs, and decides she’ll have to get as many as Jug’s bike will allow. But first, she has other matters to attend to.

Betty twirls giddily into her boyfriend’s lap, arms wrapped around his neck and his hand coming to rest on her denim-clad thigh. “Thank you, Juggie,” she smiles into his neck.

It’s September, and the bookshop’s open windows are doing very little to let in any kind of cooling breeze, but she can’t resist snuggling deeper into the warmth of his leather. He smells of pine needles and engine oil, the result of some last-minute tinkering with the bike before coming to pick her up, but she doesn’t mind.

“Anything for you, baby.” He slides one hand higher up her thigh and the other up to her chin, tilting her head up for a passionate kiss, during which he licks the remaining frosting off her lips.

She’s about to shift to straddle his lap when Maurice reminds them of his presence with a well-timed cough, and then she’s suddenly very interested in the newest book on the coffee table--Kate Moore’s  _ Radium Girls _ .

Maurice lets her take it, as well as the rest of the books the two teens manage to pick out before the sun falls too low in the sky, and they carry the bulky mix of hard- and paper-backs over to his bike in a cardboard box Maurice had found laying around in the back room.

He kisses her again, hard enough she can feel it in her bones, right before she climbs onto the seat. When the engine revs up, her arms clutch to him on instinct, and she’s too dizzy to remember to tighten the strap of her helmet--too dizzy to remember that he’s leaving tomorrow.

 

~~~

 

Betty wakes up at half past midnight, sweaty and screaming, and can’t calm herself back down until the sun reemerges. She clutches her knees to her chest and lowers her head into her arms, gasping for shallow breaths as the stream of tears on her cheeks slows to a halt. And then she gets dressed for the day, pulling on the only piece of flannel she has in her closet. It’s his.

The sunken dark circles under his eyes tell her that he hasn’t slept much more than her. He doesn’t greet her with an overly cheery “Good morning,” but rather rushes to hug her tight to his chest, and suddenly she can’t breathe again.

It’s too much. The smell of him floods her senses, and then she can feel the pine flowing in her veins. She can hear the beating of his heart from underneath that soft t-shirt she hadn’t quite managed to steal from him yet. She can taste the salt on her tongue again, eyes squeezed shut so hard they sting.

She scratches at the back of his jacket until she manages to get a hold, fists his leather in her delicate fingers, and refuses to let go. Not even when he does. Not even when his head lifts up from its spot in her hair, and he’s coaxing them apart.

“Betty, baby, please look at me,” he urges, and she obeys despite herself. She’s never heard his voice so tired, so strained, so shaky.

“I don’t want to let go, Jug,” she sobs, sniffling as the tears drip further.

_ I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to let go--I don’t want you to go. Why are you letting me go? _

“I don’t want to either, but we have to let each other go, Betty. It’s for the b--”

_ Let each other go? Wh--Why is this so easy for you? And not for me? What do you m--? _

She steps away then, fingers slack as the leather slips out of her hands, and her glassy eyes widen. His face is dark-- _ too  _ dark. And...no. No.  _ No. N _ \--“Are you breaking up with me?”

Something in his face crumples , and her knees give out, letting her fall to the floor , oversized flannel enveloping her body as she curls into a tight ball, squeezing her legs and arms close to her torso hard enough that they go numb. In fact, all of her goes numb.

_ He’s moved on, Betty. He’s going to college and he needs to move on, find a new life. Without you. _

Her body doesn’t register the hard wooden floors it’s laying on--they seem to drop out from underneath her , and Betty closes her eyes when the room falls away as well. She might as well be floating all on her own in the deepest pits of outer space, for all she knows.

But then she can feel a weight on her, some sounds being whispered into her ears, and she opens her eyes to the world crashing back down on her. He’s peppering light kisses along her jawline, hands fumbling to find hers where they’ve been wedged between her knees, and shoulders trembling in what her hazy mind identifies as fear.

“Baby-- baby, please come back to me. Betty. No, Betts, no. I could never break up with you.” He kisses her forehead, and stills for a second before letting out a loud exhale. “I love you too much to lose you this way. Betty, please listen to me.”

_ He needs to move o--wait. He  _ what _? _

A shaky hand--hers--reaches up to smooth out the creases in his forehead, to brush the tear off his sharp cheekbone, and she blinks slowly as his words register. “You love me?”

He finally loses himself and barely manages to break his fall before collapsing to the floor beside her, arms reaching to scoop her into his chest. “Of course I do, Betts,” he affirms into her blonde hair, and she tilts her head up to match her lips to his.

They’ve never kissed like this before, as if every swipe of his tongue against hers etches his name just that bit deeper into her heart. She belongs to Jughead Jones. And he to her.

FP honks from outside, but the two of them ignore him for as long as they can--until he’s furiously banging on the Coopers’ front door, and Jughead pulls his lips from hers to rest their foreheads against each other.

“I’m gonna miss you, Coop,” he whispers into her skin, arms tightening around her. “You better not go breaking my heart while I’m gone.”

She snorts through newly shed tears and pecks his lips again. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Jones.”

“That’s my girl.”

She doesn’t watch as FP peels out of her driveway, foot already grinding down on the gas pedal to make up for all the lost time. She doesn’t even start the necessary walk to school. Instead, she climbs upstairs and falls back asleep in his flannel, Alice Cooper’s lectures on perfect attendance be damned.

The next morning, when she has to eat her eggs all alone, and she opens the door to an empty street, the tears threaten to spill again. She texts him the whole way to first period. A little part of herself breaks off when he only sends her a few words in response.

**Busy moving in. Call you tonight.**

 

~~~

 

Betty had let Ethel run  _ The Blue and Gold _ ’s Activities Fair booth. She’d let Kevin run the first meeting of the year. And she most certainly had not stepped foot in the office since he left.

It’s better this way, she reasons. Because she already knows what she’s going to find when she walks in there: dust mites, cobwebs, sticky desks and creaky swivel chairs. Definitely not Jughead, who would smile and laugh and save her from her mundane homework assignments if only he were there.

While she does miss the comfort of the room, she has no plans to go back there. Or, at least, she’d had no plans to until Mrs. Warner had quite literally dragged her inside.

It’s different than she’d expected. There are still dust mites lingering under bookcases and on windowsills, cobwebs traveling from the computers to the desks and back again, and chairs that groan when the two women settle in their seats. To top it all off, there’s also no Jughead. But what she hadn’t expected was the air--the smell of old books and pine that reminds her of him in all the best ways. She hadn’t expected the sense of safety that settles over her and reassures her that they’ll get through this--that she’ll get through this. 

Mrs. Warner folds her hands together on top of her ancient desk. “I brought you here in private today because I would like to offer you the position of Editor in Chief of  _ The Blue and Gold  _ before Kevin and Ethel have at it. You would be wonderful for the job, Betty.”

The blonde’s shoulders tense up and her spine straightens. While she would’ve been ecstatic at the prospect of becoming Editor in Chief nearly a year ago, the idea of taking his place on the newspaper makes her stomach churn. He’d love her to have it, she knows, but it feels almost like she’s trying to replace him. That, and she’d have to spend a lot more time in this office (which, she’s realizing now, doesn’t sound as terrible as she’d thought it would).

Sensing the apprehension in her student’s face, Mrs. Warner’s gaze softens. “I understand if you wish to decline, Betty, but I think it would be good for you. To do something for yourself.”

Betty finds herself nodding along. She  _ should  _ do this for herself. This is what she’s wanted ever since her parents brought her to work for  _ The Register _ all those years ago, and she finally has a chance.

“Uh, no--” she stutters, trying to find her words again, “I’ll gladly take the role, Mrs. Warner, thank you.” There’s a small smile playing at the teacher’s lips, but Betty ignores it.

She pulls her phone out of her back pocket on her way home and shoots him a quick text, knowing he’s probably too busy to respond to anything more right now.

**Guess who’s Riverdale High’s newest Editor in Chief???**

**You?! It’s you, isn’t it.** She smiles as his replies shoot in rapidly.  **I knew it! So proud. I’ve gotta go, but know that I love you. Call you later.** He adds on a black heart for good measure, and she smiles wide at the messages.

Later, he starts their FaceTime off with an enthusiastic “Did you hear?! My badass girlfriend’s the new Editor in Chief of a pretty renowned newspaper,” and she giggles at his antics.

That night, for the first time in a few nights, she doesn’t wake up covered in goosebumps at the crack of dawn.

 

~~~

 

They’d decided to call each other every night--a way to stay close, connected , while physically hundreds of miles apart. It had worked at first. FaceTime calls after dinner, on Saturday mornings, while he walked from his Journalism in Practice class to Philosophy.

But, as life begins to demand more out of the both of them, their schedules diverge and she’ll be running a  _ Blue and Gold _ meeting during his only break. Or he’ll be out at a frat party with his roommate and some girl and their other friends (Sabrina, Betty thinks he said her name was) when she tries to call him at night. And they’ll both be sleeping in on those Saturday mornings, desperate for the extra hours of rest.

It becomes harder and harder to find the time as the days drag on.

 

~~~

 

**Hey, I’m out on a run and have some time.**

**Sorry, babe, journalism conference. Attendance is ManDaTOrY. Ugh. Catch you later.**

**Oh, okay. Later, then.**

 

~~~

 

**Haven’t exactly had the best day. Could we talk?**

**Yeah, hold on, just leaving the library now. I’ll be in my room soon.**

**Okay, great. Call me when you get there.**

 

**Hey, are you back in your room yet?**

  
  


**Jug?**

**Jughead?**

 

**Sorry, had to help Harvey fix the shower. Can I call you now?**

**Busy. Mom needs me to go pick up Polly. Talk to you later.**

 

~~~

 

**I’ve got some time while I wait for my laundry. You?**

**Jug, I’m in class right now.**

**Right. Sorry.**

 

~~~

 

**I really want to see your face, babe. Can I call you?**

Betty looks up from her phone and scans the room. She and Veronica are in line to ask their guidance counselors a few questions about college applications, and they’ve barely moved an inch in the thirty minutes they’ve been waiting. Surely she’ll be back in time to keep her spot.

“Betty!” Veronica hisses when the blonde brings the ringing cell phone to her ear and steps out of line. “Where are you going?”

“Jug,” she offers in explanation, shrugging, and tilts her head further into the phone. God, how she longs to hear his voice.

She doesn’t register Veronica’s disapproving frown until she’s outside of the guidance office, the giddy smile on her face slipping a bit.  _ What’s with Veronica? _ She figures she’ll ask her friend later. For now, she’ll continue to laugh as Jughead tells her about his economics professor and her inconsequential ramblings.

 

~~~

 

It turns out that Veronica’s problem is  _ her--Betty. _ And her phone.

They’re lying together on Betty’s bed, the brunette’s manicured fingers wrapped tightly around the device.

“You’re not getting it back, Betty.”

“Come on, Ron,” she whines, outstretched arm dropping with heavy resignation when she realizes her best friend won’t budge.

“No, Betty, you  _ come on. _ Haven’t you noticed that this  _ thing _ is all you pay attention to anymore? The Betty I know would  _ never  _ put her boyfriend above school, or college, or keeping her best friend company in line.”

“I know, Ron, but we never get to see each other, and when we both have the time, we just have to talk,” she attempts to explain, but Veronica cuts her off with a glare.

“You didn’t have the time. You were supposed to be spending that time with  _ me _ .” He gaze softens a bit, the coursing fire in her veins simmering down. “I get that you miss him, but he can’t rule your life like that. And you can’t rule his--I’m sure he’s had to skip out on a few events just to make the time to talk to you, too. It’s unfair to the both of you to keep going on this way.”

Betty repeats Veronica’s words over and over in her head.  _ He can’t rule your life...he’s had to skip out...It’s unfair. _ It is unfair; she’d definitely noticed that about their current situation. But she hadn’t thought about how their relationship was affecting their lives outside of it.

The brunette releases the device from her grip, dropping it to the center of the rose gold comforter. “Take it, call him, let him know how you feel,” she urges, but Betty shakes her head.

She wraps an arm around her best friend, adjusting so that they’re facing each other across the gap between the two pillows on Betty’s bed. “Later. I’m spending some time with my best friend now.”

 

~~~

 

She calls him when Smithers pulls out of the Coopers’ driveway, Veronica in tow.

He picks up almost immediately and she fumbles around, trying to pick her words. She hadn’t exactly planned on him answering her.

All she’d planned for was a lot of tears, and so a box of tissues sits next to her knees, out of the camera’s view. He doesn’t need to see her crying--or even know that she’s going to.

He greets her with a sigh rather than a “hello,” and she sniffles. It already seems like the end. So much for him not seeing her cry.

“Uh, hey, Jug,” she starts, shoulders hunched and eyes tracing over the patterns on her bedspread rather than looking at the screen in front of her.

“What’s up, Betts?”

She suddenly looks up to examine his face: tired, sunken eyes, set jaw. A mixture of exhausted and apprehensive that makes her heart ache. Why have they done this to themselves?

She can’t make excuses for them anymore.

“What are we doing, Jug?” she asks on a heavy sigh. Her shoulders drop lower, eyes staying focused on his and fingers blindly reaching for the box of tissues at her side. She’s going to need them if she wants to get the next few words out of her mouth. “I feel like I’m so far away from you, and not just physically.” She hasn’t felt so disconnected from him in what seems to be ages. Since that night on his couch, watching him play video games, all those years ago.

“We never really talk. We don’t,” she reiterates when he’s about to protest. “We talk about our days, how they went, the good, the bad, the ugly,” she snorts at her movie reference but has to reach for a tissue to dab at her eyes. She folds the tissue carefully when she’s done, taking the time to mull over her words. Finally, she decides to be blunt. “That’s not a relationship, Jug,” she sobs, his name catching on her tongue as her eyes shut, hard.

“Betty, please, don’t cry.” She opens her eyes at his words, and the softness of his tone, of his gaze, causes her body to shake harder. Why is he so good to her? Why is he making this so much harder than it already is? “I can’t watch you cry, baby, it hurts too much,” he whispers, voice hoarse and about to crack itself.

She wills her body to calm, ribs aching as she digs her fingers into her sides.  _ Get a grip, Betty. _ She can’t. Her shoulders won’t stop dancing up and down with her heavy breaths and loud sniffles.  “We can’t go on like this, Jug. What are we doing?” she asks again, this time with her face tilted upwards, as if looking to the heavens for an answer.

“It’s only a year, alright?” He’s pleading with her now, hands wiping away at his cheeks as tears threaten to drop. “We can get through this, baby, we can. I promise, alright?”

“It’s not--It’s  _ not  _ just a year. What if I end up somewhere just as far away from you for the next four years? What then?” She sobs harder as the words escape her lips, wincing at the wounded noise that follows. She can’t see too clearly anymore, vision blurry, but she manages to watch him crumble in front of her, forehead pinched in pain at the sound she makes.

“I could do this for another four years. Ten years. Forever. I love you, Betts.” His tears finally fall, and his eyes burn even brighter. Her heart clenches at the sight, her body shaking as it falls apart at the seams.  _ I love you too, _ she wants to tell him--but she can’t. “If you think that, I don’t know, us breaking up is for the best, then I’ll respect that--just know it’ll break my heart, too.”

He hangs up with a resigned sigh, and she replaces the tissues with one of the pillows from the top of her bed, sobbing into it without restraint. She gasps for air into the fabric, ragged breaths long and drawn out as they gather as much air as possible. “Oh, Jug,” she cries out, voice shaky. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

~~~

 

She’d fallen asleep clothed, above the comforter, face buried into a snot-crusted pillow. Her hair’s a mess when she looks at herself in the mirror the next morning, eyes red and puffy, skin cracked at the edges of her face. Her lips are plump and red, split open by the assault of her teeth.

Worst of all, she thinks, is her headache. Her thoughts are cloudy, muddled together, and she doesn’t have the energy to sort through them yet.

Obviously, she doesn’t want to break up with him. There’s nothing necessarily  _ wrong _ with their relationship. In fact, she’s the happiest she’s ever been when she’s with him--and that’s probably what hurts the most. That if there weren’t those hundreds of miles between them, they wouldn’t have to be going through such heartbreak.

It’s a Friday, and she has to get through the last day of the week before she digs herself into a fit of depression, so she decides to push those thoughts to the back of her mind--she’ll deal with them later.

That doesn’t mean the day goes smoothly. Jughead definitely doesn’t help the situation: He texts her a quick  **Good morning <3** right as she heads out the door, and the simultaneous swelling and aching of her heart puts her in a foul mood for the rest of the day.

She’s so out of it, processing the world around her in slow motion, that she doesn’t even move out of the way of the dodgeball that Ginger lobs at her forehead during gym class. The ice pack that rests on her face for the rest of the period does little to stop the swelling.

Veronica definitely notices her best friend’s inattention (as if the huge bruise on her forehead isn’t enough of an indication), and forces the two of them into her car later that Friday night in an effort to cheer her up. She drives towards the school, towards the pep rally for tomorrow’s legendary Greendale v.  Riverdale football game.

The girls sit in the bleachers by the shot-put field, surrounded by hundreds of other students camping out under the night stars to watch the captain of the Bulldogs light up this year’s bonfire.

Reggie sets off the flames after a bit of trial and error (the oppressive humidity seems to have dampened some of the logs), and the crowd finally comes to life with the fire. The flickering light paints the crowd in odd shadows, but Betty finds the darks and lights dancing across Ethel’s chin and highlighting the blonde in Ginger’s hair to be beautiful.

Veronica, on the other hand, shudders at the eerie display and huddles in closer to her friend. Then she yelps, and Betty looks over to where she’s frantically patting down her straightened hair.

“Betty, it’s raining,” she hisses as she pulls the hood of her designer cape over her head. Betty sticks her tongue out, hoping to catch a drop, but feels nothing.

“No, it’s not, Ron, or else everyone would be running out of here by now.” She speaks a second too late, as the flames dim, and then people are shouting. Some run to the parking lot, hoping to reach the refuge of their cars before the downpour arrives in full force, others complain about the failed bonfire.

Right as Betty feels the first few drops trickle from the crown of her head down to the tip of her nose, the fire begins to flicker out slowly, fighting the rain with all its strength. Veronica’s pulling her roughly by the hand, managing to wade through the crowd headed towards the lot with practiced efficiency. How her stiletto heels haven’t sunk into the mud yet, Betty will never understand.

The rain seeps into Betty’s pores, and she tilts her head up to the sky. It feels good to be washed over; the cool water seems to cleanse her face, her heart, her soul. The raindrops don’t taste salty in her mouth, but rather refreshing, and she embraces them.

“Betty, will you get in the damn car!” Veronica shouts before shutting the door closed after her, and Betty takes her time wandering around to the other side of the vehicle. “God, you’re soaked,” Veronica comments disdainfully when the blonde settles in her seat. “At least we drove over here in my car. Can you imagine having to get home on a bike in this rain. Must be hell,” she mutters as she starts the car up.

The headlights turn on automatically, highlighting the exact moment Dilton Doiley slips over a patch of mud and falls to the swampy grass on his ass. Veronica shakes her head lightly at him and pulls out of her parking spot.

“It’s not that bad,” Betty replies quietly as she stares out through the windshield.

“What?” The raven-haired teen asks, more focused on the slippery roads than her best friend.

“Nothing. I just said it’s not nearly as bad as Hell--riding a bike in the rain, I mean. It’s actually kind of fun,” she sighs, shivering from the sudden cold that comes over her.

That night, she takes a selfie with her blonde hair drenched and stuck flat to her head, eyelashes dripping wet and clumped together, and nose running. It’s not the prettiest picture of herself by any means, but she still sends it to him with the caption  **I’m sorry I freaked out last** **night. We’ll make it work, I know we will. And when you come back, we’ll go on more bike rides in the rain. I miss you.**

His reply comes quickly.  **I miss you too, gorgeous. And I love you--don’t you forget it.**

She clutches her phone to her chest as she lays in bed, hair soaking her pillow and thoughts focused on the what the bonfire’s shadows would look like running over his face.

Intoxicating, she imagines, but she’d like to know for sure. To be there, with him, for as long as it takes for the shadows to catch up to him too.

 

~~~

 

Making memories.

It’s one of her favorite aspects of their relationship--how they explore the little world around Riverdale together, how they learn more and more about each other on every adventure.

Or, how they  _ had  _ explored the world,  _ had _ learned about each other. That had all stopped when he left, and it becomes the focus of their relationship once again when they decide to make the long distance work.

They actively seek activities they can do together, over the internet, to bring that aspect of romance back into their relationship.

He takes her on a “date” where they both settle into their respective bedding with their laptops and a bowl of popcorn, screens split between the FaceTime viewer and netflix.

She teaches him how to bake as they both make microwavable mug cakes (his dorm room doesn’t allow for much else). Her laughter rings through the Coopers’ kitchen as he accidentally smears batter all over his cheeks, and she can’t get the image of him with funfetti pink eyebrows out of her head for the next week. 

They find an online video game, Portal, that allows them to solve puzzles together on Saturday afternoons. Betty thinks that might be her favorite “date” of theirs--they work best when they’re sleuthing, putting pieces together and trading ideas off of each other.

He sends her a bouquet of flowers every Monday morning, without fail, and she looks forward to the start of each week, to their future together, more than s he ever had before.

 

~~~

 

With the end of October comes the rush to finish college applications by the November 1st deadline. She’s sitting at her desk at home, the Common Application open and completed on her laptop, a list of fifteen potential schools printed and sitting in front of her on the wooden tabletop.

She’s narrowed the list down as recommended by her guidance counselor to include a few safeties, targets, and reaches, but she needs to figure out which college’s supplements to write first--which college to apply to early.

Most of them are private schools with Early Decision requirements--meaning that if accepted, she must attend the university in the fall--and so she can only pick one. 

If she’s being honest with herself, she knows what school it’s going to be: Columbia University.

It checks all ( _ most _ ) of her boxes. Academically rigorous. In a major city (and the total opposite of Riverdale, where everybody knows everybody and there are no secrets to be kept). Close to home, close to her mother, close to Polly.

But it wouldn’t get her much closer to Jug. And that holds her back as she scans over the list of schools in front of her.

If she wanted to be as close to him as possible for the next four years, she’d quite obviously pick Northwestern: amazing journalism program, really driven students. But then she remembers that it’s in a suburb outside of Chicago far too similar to Riverdale with its single-family homes and tree-lined streets, and she shivers. She knows herself better than that. She would hate it there.

There are other schools closer to him than Columbia, but as she crosses out Northwestern with her pink highlighter, Betty realizes she’s going to college for herself, not for him. Sure, she’d prefer to be within driving distance, but they could survive apart for another four years. It doesn’t seem so impossible anymore.

She fills out the application for Columbia.

 

~~~

 

His birthday present arrives at Thanksgiving--and it’s a surprise.

She calls him the night before the holiday, voice intentionally shaky and upset.

“Hey, Betts, what’s up?” he asks, almost sleepily despite the fact that it’s only 2:30 in the afternoon his time.

Her heart rate picks up with anticipation, but she takes a few breaths to calm herself before starting. “Oh, Juggie,” she laments into the phone. “It’s just so unfair. We could’ve seen each other for the first time in months, and instead you’re going to Toledo with your family.” She hiccups for good measure and has to pinch her arm to keep herself from laughing.

“I know it sucks, Betts, but mom wants me to meet up with them in Toledo. I tried fighting her on it, but she’s right. Toledo’s a lot closer than Riverdale and will be easier to get to for a four day holiday. I miss you so much, baby, but I promise we’ll see each other over Christmas. Alright?” he sighs, more exhausted and broken than he had sounded a minute ago, and her heart squeezes in her chest. She feels bad for making him despair like this, but it’ll all be worth it when she surprises him in Toledo at his grandparents’ house tomorrow.

“I miss you too, Juggie.” She doesn’t have to act this time. The slight sob and hitch in her voice are both real; she truly does miss him so much.

“I’ll see you soon. Promise. Now talk to me, babe. How was your day. Anything fun happen?”

She smiles wide at that. He cares about her so much. It makes her even more excited to see him tomorrow. He won’t know what hit him.

 

It turns out that, as always, she’s right--he has absolutely no idea what’s going on when she steps out from behind FP at the entrance to Grandma Beatrice’s dingy sitting room. His mouth gapes like a fish as he freezes, arm raised and fingers still tangled where he was brushing them through his hair.

“Hi, Juggie,” she greets shyly, cheeks flushing. She wants to run and jump in his arms, but she thinks he may just drop her in his state of shock. It’s better to let him come to his senses first.

“Betty?” He finally moves, shaking his head and blinking rapidly as if waiting for her to disappear the next time he opens his eyes.

She doesn’t go anywhere.

“It’s me, Jug. Happy Birthday,” she breathes, giggling when he finally runs to pull her into his chest. Her feet fly off the ground as he lifts her up until they’re at eye-level, and then he’s kissing her soundly, her toes curling in the air at the feeling.

His lips are pressed hard against hers, then he’s biting down hard on her lower lip, as if he needs to feel her even more. He doesn’t draw blood, but her mouth tingles brilliantly and her lips sting. She loves the sensation--that reminder of him even after he pulls away when they remember the others in the room.

He sets her down slowly, her combat boots hitting the floor with a clunk, but his arms never leave her waist. “Grandma Beatrice, this is my girlfriend Betty,” he introduces, beaming.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Betty greets, extending her hand out for a shake. Her lips are a bit swollen now, and they bump together clumsily when she talks. She doesn’t mind it one bit.

His grandma just squeezes the palm of Betty’s hand in hers and replies, “Hello, dearie. Gladys has told me so many wonderful things about you.” Jughead rolls his eyes at that, and Betty giggles, shuffling even further into his side.

“I’m sure Betty would like to continue this talk, but we’ve got some pressing matters, Mamaw. We’ll see you later.” The older woman shoots Betty a knowing look before he can turn her towards the hallway, and then Jughead’s running to give Jellybean a hug by the stairs. She’s sitting on the lowest step, playing some kind of game on her iPod, and she squeals when he lifts her above his head.

“Gosh, you’re getting heavier and heavier, Jelly,” he groans under her weight.

“That’s because I’m a big girl now,” she huffs back, pouting, and he laughs.

“That you are.” He sets her on her feet at the bottom of the stairs, and then moves around her to start heading up the stairs, pulling Betty by the hand behind him. 

“Where are you bringing me, Jug?” she asks as she tries to keep up with his pace.

“I haven’t seen you in months, and now you’re here. Obviously I’m giving you a tour of the bedrooms,” he winks, and she flushes. His hand squeezes hers tighter as he leads her to the last room down the hall, where the nearby bookcase houses a ceramic vase of fake flowers. He plucks a little daisy from the edge of the bouquet and hands it to her.

“For my lady,” he whispers dramatically, eyebrows dancing.

She chuckles and pretends to smell the plastic flower. “Mmm, I love it. Thank you, dear.” His eyes shine as she tips her head back up to look at him, and he beams at her in amusement.

“What?” she asks when a few moments pass and he doesn’t make any other move. She waits for a beat. No response. “What?”

This time, his head swoops down to kiss her tenderly, lovingly, and she can feel the passionate emotion behind every push and pull of his lips--she’s his drug, and he just can’t get enough.

She drops the daisy to run her fingers through his dark locks, knocking the beanie to the floor as a warning to anybody who dares enter the room after them:  _ Do Not Disturb _ .

 

~~~

~~~

 

His hand fumbles to turn the doorknob as they back into the room, him leading her until the backs of her calves hit the bed, and then they’re both laughing as she falls onto the mattress. He follows her down, lips never parting from hers until they both need to come up for air.

She can hear herself panting, trying to fill her lungs with as much air as possible before she pulls his mouth back to hers. His denim-clad knee wedges against hers, spreading her thighs apart just enough for him to settle between her legs, and then he moves to press wet kisses from her jaw all the way down her neck.

He sucks down hard on her pulse point and she nearly moans. Betty’s never gone past this point with any guy--including Jughead--but when he brands himself onto her skin again in a way that even she knows will be a bitch to cover up later, she’s sure. She’s never been surer about anything in her life; she wants more. With him.

His lips move farther down her neck to mouth at her exposed collarbone (she’d tucked a low-cut tank top into her skater skirt this morning for this express purpose), and she whines. 

“Quiet, baby,” he admonishes lightly, lifting his head to look up at her. “You wouldn’t want us to get caught, would you?”

She shakes her head quickly--god, no. This can’t end before it even begins.

“That’s what I thought,” he smiles lovingly before dropping his head back to her cleavage. His tongue swipes at the swell of her breasts, and this time, she bites her lip to stop herself from moaning. He reaches the edge of the tank top’s fabric with his mouth, and she wants-- _ needs _ \--more, so her fingers disentangle themselves from the back of his head and drop down to pull at her top.

“Are you sure, Betts?” he asks quickly, watching her face for any hesitation.

She tilts her head up to meet his eyes and nods her head. “More, Jug,” she begs as she pulls away again to lean back against the comforter, his tongue beginning its ministrations against her chest all over again. When he chuckles deeply in reply, the sound reverberates in her bones and her thighs clench around him.

His fingers help her deftly peel the tank top off of her body, and she’s left in her simple black t-shirt bra. She hadn’t exactly planned for this, but if the glint in his eyes is any indication, then her current undergarments work just fine. His tongue digs deeper now, curling under the top of her bra to discover more skin, and Betty clumsily extends a hand towards the top of the bed to grab a pillow. She moans into it to muffle the sound, and her silence is rewarded with the heat of his mouth as it envelops her newly-uncovered nipple.

His attention focuses far too much on the one, and not the other, so she decides to take care of the ache in her left breast by herself; just as her hand nearly reaches the hardened peak, he pulls it away with his own, interlocking their fingers to the side of her on the bed.

“Juggie,” she whines, exasperated and needy.

He pecks her lips after releasing her nipple from his mouth, and scolds her amusedly, “Patience, Betts. Good things come to those who wait.”

She doesn’t know what comes over her. Maybe it’s the dim lighting streaming into the room from the early sunset of late November, or the overpowering smell of  _ him _ that she’s been craving for months, or the smirk on his kissable lips. It doesn’t matter what it is exactly. What matters is that when she lifts her head up to mouth at his earlobe and whispers, “I don’t want good things--I want bad things,  _ dirty _ things, now,” his eyes turn impossibly dark and he licks a stripe from her stomach to her jaw, returning to eventually dip his tongue into her belly button. It’s an odd sensation, but one that stokes the fire in the pit of her stomach even further.

Her ankles hook at the back of him, drawing her hips closer to his waist, and he groans out, “Baby, you have to tell me to stop. Because I’m about two seconds away from ripping these flimsy things right off,” he fingers the edge of her lace-trim black panties under her skirt, “and having my way with you.”

“Do it,” she breathes out. The ache between her legs intensifies at the idea of him tearing her underwear off hungrily, and suddenly she’s never needed something so much in her life. 

(They’re old, anyway, and won’t be missed all that much.)

As soon as the words slip from her lips, he flips her skirt up onto her stomach and somehow slashes through the fabric at her hips, trailing light kisses up the tops of her thighs as he pulls the severed panties into the pocket of his jeans.

His eyes look up to catch hers, and he smirks wickedly. “You weren’t going to wear those again anyway, were you?”

Her giggle morphs into a moan when she feels the roughness of his tongue drag up her slit, swirling around her clit, and she reaches down to tug him even closer by his hair. Though she’s never done anything like this before, she’s not as nervous as she’d thought she would be. Any embarrassment she feels is swept away by his worshipping mouth as it works her body like a finely-tuned instrument--one made for him and his touch.

She cants her hips up towards him, searching for more friction, and he dips deeper into her, finally bringing his fingers up to help her along; his thumb circles her clit, and the gruff texture of it against her slippery folds--paired with the words “Come, baby,” whispered like a prayer into her skin--tips her over the edge.

Her eyes widen as the faint light of the room now seems almost blinding, overwhelming, and a wave of energy pulses through her body, cresting and crashing into her. He continues to lick her every drop and then moves his way up, back to her belly button and breasts, back to her eager lips as a sudden calm descends upon her. She’s tired, exhausted in the best of ways, but also wonderfully at peace, tranquil like the sea after a storm.

His fingers massage away at her hips as he continues to pepper kisses all up her jawline and on her forehead, his hips raised above her thighs. He’s trying to conceal his hard-on from her, and she already knows what he means:  _ This was all for you, Betts. Don’t worry about me. _

Well, if this is all for her, then she’s going to have to help him with his little problem--as much as she’s sated, her mouth still waters at the idea of doing  _ more _ . She hasn’t seen him in months,  nearly lost him before that , and suddenly she wants him everywhere.

Her fingers run down his chest to reach the waist of his jeans, and his adam's apple bobs when she begins to fumble with the button.

But then he’s clearing his throat, hard, and pulling back to catch her gaze. “Betty--”

“I know,” she interrupts with a dazzling smile. “But I want to. So let me.”

He nods harshly, eyes shutting closed when her fingers unzip his pants and reach into his boxers, and she can’t help but giggle.

“What?” he stutters out.

She shakes her head lightly, sweaty golden hair all mussed up and moving like a halo around her. “Just that, if this is how you react when my fingers are gripping you…” His eyes blink open rapidly, widening, and she decides to torture him a bit more by continuing. “Then what’s gonna happen when my mouth is on you?”

She doesn’t know where the dirty talk comes from--not once has she ever indulged Veronica by watching R-rated (more like porn-rated) movies together at their sleepovers. Yet, she likes it. She likes the way his dick throbs in her fist at her words, the way she can nearly feel his pulse quicken with excitement. She likes this kind of control she has over him.

Betty pulls her hand from his pants and throws all her body weight into flipping them over on the bed--it’s her turn to be on top. She bites her lip as her gaze wanders over his chest, and then she’s tugging at his shirt. “It’s not fair, Jug, I’m naked and you’ve still got too many layers on.”

Once his lean muscles have been exposed, she slides off of him and to the floor, pulling him with her to the edge of the bed by the thighs.

“Betty, what--?”

“I said I want my mouth on you, Jug, and I meant it.” His head tilts back at her words, groaning, and she smiles as she reaches for the pillow she had used as a muffler before, settling it underneath her knees this time.

When she finally looks up at him through darkened lashes, she finds him gazing back at her in wonder. His hands cup her face, and he leans forward. “You’re amazing, baby, and I love you to the moon and back, but just know that you don’t have to do this unless you really want to.”

Her cheeks flush under the attention of his hands, but she shakes her head in protest. “I do know that, and I want to. So let me take care of you now, Juggie.”

He can only swallow and nod in affirmation, and she takes that as a sign to begin. He’s hot and heavy in her hand, and although she has nobody to compare him to, Betty still gulps at the size of his length. How on Earth is he ever going to fit inside her?

Betty’s deliberately slow with her movements, taking her time so that she doesn’t mess this up. Although she’s fallen down enough internet rabbit holes to know her way around a dick, it’s still her first time, and she needs some time to process.

Her thumb swipes over the tip of his cock, precum coating her fingers as she fists him. Her fingers--seemingly so tiny when wrapped around him--move to work the base of his length when her tongue flickers out to swirl around the head.

He moans filthily, and she smiles as she licks up the underside of his dick, tongue focused on the vein pulsing underneath it. Her nerves fade away at his words of encouragement ( _ “you’re so good to me, baby” _ ) and she finally wraps her lips around him, one hand still fisting him under her mouth and the other reaching up to play with his balls.

(She’d read that men like that particular action, and Jughead confirms it with a low groan followed by a “I’m gonna come, Betts.”)

His body tenses underneath her, coiled like a spring about to explode, and she works him harder, cheeks sucking in as she bobs her head up and down. He lets out a string of four-letter expletives (his favorite being “fuck”) and then his body jerks, and she can taste his saltiness on her tongue. It’s odd, but not enough to make her want to spit it out, and she swallows as her mouth continues to coax him through the aftershocks.

His arms, which had been propping him up behind him, fall limp, and he collapses onto the bed, a grin plastered on his face. “Come here, baby,” he urges, and she moves to lay next to him on the bed.

He wraps his arms around her, heavy with exhaustion, and she shuffles further into his chest, fingers trailing lightly up and down his stomach as she kisses down his neck.

“That was incredible, Betts. You’re incredible. I love you,” he whispers over and over again into her hair.

Her eyes drift shut as his steady breaths rock her to sleep, and hundreds of  _ I love you too _ s echo in her thoughts as she falls asleep.

~~~

~~~

 

Thanksgiving passes with a lot of laughter and love, all of them seated around the dinner table sending plates around while chatting about the past year. Betty’s favorite part happens after Gladys stands up to bring out the turkey, when everyone has to reveal what they’re thankful for before receiving any more food.

“Betty, my family, my new school and amazing professors, happiness, health,” comes Jughead’s easy answer, and Betty’s breath hitches--she doesn’t know if the order necessarily means anything, but it sure does feel nice to be put first.

His hand reaches out under the table to land on her thigh, thumb rubbing circles over her tights. (They’re a light pastel blue, and Jughead had nearly torn them this morning in a frustrated attempt to reveal the creamy skin underneath.)

When she looks up from where he’s caressing her thigh, she turns her head just in time to catch the small smile dancing on his lips-- _ the order means everything. _

As much as she misses spending the day with her family, Betty thinks this might be her best Thanksgiving yet.

They spend the rest of the long weekend exploring Toledo, and she convinces him to hike Oak Openings Preserve with her. (All of his whining about his achy joints does nothing to stop her from jumping him in the woods. He doesn’t complain anymore after that.)

Sunday’s their last day together before she hops in a car with the rest of the Joneses and drives back to Riverdale. She wakes to him sucking at her exposed back, and she relishes the feeling, purring in pleasure. His fingers play with the waistband of her cotton pajama pants, and Betty giggles as she turns to face him.

“Morning, Juggie. Excited already, are we?”

His eyes, still half-lidded from sleep, darken a few shades right in front of her. “Morning, baby,” he greets lowly, sitting up in bed and then gripping her hips to carry her up and over his lap so that she’s straddling him. His mouth finds hers in a languid kiss, lazy with the exhaustion of having just woken up.

They don’t get much farther than that though, Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” (the ringtone Polly had set for herself) blasting from Betty’s phone on her nightstand. She sighs against his lips at the interruption and climbs out of his lap to answer her sister.

“Hey, Pol,” she greets as she slumps back against the pillows. Her shoulders tense up again as soon as Polly’s agitated ramblings filter through.

“He’s gone, B-Betty. I just found him, and mom...she had to come with the car...and the vet--”

“The vet? Hold up, start again. What happened?”

“It’s Hotdog,” she wails, and Betty’s old friend, the brick of dread, builds itself up in her lower stomach all over again. She feels heavy when she moves to reassuringly settle her hand on Jughead’s bicep. He probably hadn’t heard a word Polly said, but just in case he had--Betty wants him to know she’s there.

“I-I walked him yesterday, because, you know, the Joneses are gone, and I noticed that he was really tired--so sluggish, mopey, and I made a mental reminder to tell mom about it.” She takes a deep, steadying breath. “But I just totally forgot to tell her, and when I unlocked the house this morning--just like always, just like always, Betty,” she repeats, now gasping for breath through her tears, “I couldn’t find him or call him to me or anything. Because he was curled up in the master bedroom, not breathing--” This time, Polly interrupts herself with an inhumane wail of pain, and Betty’s heart clenches--she already knows what’s coming.

“Breathe, Polly, breathe,” she soothes, and begins to count to ten. Her therapist had taught her that trick long ago, and Betty had taught it to her younger sister in turn. It always seems to help.

After a few seconds, her sister resumes her ramblings, this time at a bit slower pace. “I called mom and we drove him to the vet, but it was too late, Betty. He’s g-gone,” she stutters and trips over the last word.

Though she had expected it, Betty had still hoped for the best. She always had been unfailingly optimistic--to a fault, Polly would often say. She sighs into the phone, fingers gripping Jughead’s arm a bit tighter; she’s now doing it more for her own sanity than for his.

“I’m really sorry you had to be the one to find him, Pol, and I get that you miss him--but don’t be upset and blame yourself for what happened. I know you, I know the Cooper blood; we always think everything is our fault, and that’s just not true. Even if you had told mom about his strange behavior and brought him to the vet yesterday, it wouldn’t have slowed the inevitable. Time is the real culprit here--not you. Got it?”

She imagines her sister nodding her head on the other end of the line, because the only sound that comes through for the next few seconds is that of sniffling. Eventually, Polly remembers that she’s on a voice call and can’t be seen, so she speaks up: “Yeah, okay. Got it.”

“Good. Now, I’ll tell everyone here and spare you the grief. Go drink some tea, take a bubble bath, relax. It’ll all be okay.”

“Thank you, Betty,” Polly whispers through the phone.

“Don’t worry about it,” she answers back, making sure her voice is still steady. Sure, she’s choked up about Hotdog as well, but revealing that to her sister is just going to set off the ticking time bomb--and Betty doesn’t want to hear Polly cry over the phone any more than she already has. “Bye, Pol. I love you,” she breathes out, and then ends the call when Polly bids her goodbye as well.

She hasn’t even dropped the cellphone into her lap when Jughead’s already turning towards her, ever the investigative journalist. “I heard bits and pieces, but didn’t get it all. Is she okay? What happened with the vet?”

Her eyes close, unwilling to witness the heartbreak on his face when she breaks the news. Sighing, she answers as gingerly as she can: “Polly found Hotdog unconscious this morning…” She trails off, not needing to add on--he’s just as smart as she is and has the rest figured out in a matter of milliseconds.

“No,” comes a choked protest, stumbling out of his dried up throat. His hands shake when they come to wrap around his knees, which are now pulled to his chest. “Hotdog?”

Betty can feel the tears forming in her eyes at the hoarseness of his voice--he still sounds disbelieving, as if this is all a sick joke, or prank, or dream. When she digs the nail of her pointer finger down into her palm, the slight prick of pain reaffirms what she already knows--it’s real. This is all real. Hotdog’s really gone.

She can’t say she’s surprised. He’d been a year old or so back when she was in first grade hanging out at the Joneses’ for dinner. It’s been eleven years since then, and he’d been slowing down in the last few years. He didn’t run as fast as he used to, he didn’t jump up excitedly when someone new rang the doorbell. He was getting older, and they really should have seen it coming--but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” is all she says in response before pulling his head down to rest in her lap. She runs her fingers soothingly through his tousled locks, all the while listening as he starts to recount his favorite memories with the sheepdog. Her heart feels heavier and heavier with every story, but she doesn’t say anything.

They stay in bed until Gladys announces that brunch is ready in the kitchen, and then Betty shuffles away from under him so that she can deliver the news to the rest of Jughead’s family. She makes sure to tuck the covers in around him when he refuses to get out of bed.

The tears stream down Jellybean’s face, mixing with the leftover whipped cream on her lips. “He’s really gone, Betty?” she still manages to blubber out. Betty has to pull the little girl in for a hug so that she can’t see the teardrops on her own cheeks.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to say goodbye, Jelly,” she tells her, and Jellybean cries harder in her arms.

“Are you going to leave me too, Betty?” she stutters out between shuddering breaths.

“No, Jelly,” the blonde sighs out.  _ I’m here; I’m still here _ , she wants to say. Her arms just tighten around the little girl instead.

 

Jughead finally comes downstairs ten minutes before his family is set to head for the highway. Suitcases and pillows stuff the trunk of the Joneses’ car, and Gladys roughly sweeps the house for any forgotten items.

Jellybean’s the first one to notice him nearly tumble down the stairs, disheveled and groggy, and she runs to push him out the back door and into the yard, her little fingers digging into his back as she urges him forwards.

It’s bitterly cold outside, and Betty decides to stay behind and watch the two siblings from the open doorway. They’re both crouched down on their knees in the grass by the fence, Jellybean directing Jughead’s gaze to a little mound of dirt that hadn’t been there during last night’s marshmallow-roasting session.

“What’d you bury, Jelly?” she hears Jughead ask, his voice brittle and frozen over, icy in that it might crack at any moment.

“A hotdog,” comes the girl’s quick reply, followed by a, “so that Grandma Beatrice never forgets him. I’m going to do it at home too--so we never forget him either.”

“I love it, Bean, but don’t worry: You’ll never forget him. People don’t ever forget their loved ones.” He stands up suddenly, brushing his hands over his knees to throw off the dirt, and Betty quickly turns to the fridge to grab a yogurt she doesn’t even want--it’s the first thing she sees.

Gladys orders them all into the car as soon as the Jones kids step foot back inside the house, and then Betty’s shuffling behind Jellybean to follow her into the back seats. Jughead absentmindedly pecks her lips goodbye before shutting the car door after her, distracted, and Betty hopes he meant what he told JB--hopes that he won’t forget her until Christmas or the next time she’s physically in front of him.

Jellybean reaches to interlock their fingers across the middle seat as traffic slows to a halt right outside of Cleveland. She doesn’t let go when they speed up again, or when she dozes off after sunset. Eventually, the car pulls up on Elm Street, and Betty hates that she has to be the first one to let go.

 

~~~

 

Columbia decides to defer her acceptance decision until late March. It’s not an uncommon response from a college with such a low acceptance rate.

A lot of her friends get deferred from their dream colleges: Ethel from Brown, Kevin from American, and Veronica (despite all of Hiram Lodge’s “donations”) from Harvard. They’re understandably upset at not having been accepted just yet, but Betty finds a kind of comfort in the whole affair.

She gets to apply to more schools, gets to pick from a wider selection of schools when the acceptances do come rolling in come April 1st.

Her newer, lengthier list just so happens to include a school a few miles south of Northwestern.

 

~~~

 

The two families spend Christmas Eve together again , this time allowing gifts to be exchanged once the tree’s been decorated.

They all sit around the fire, mugs of Gladys’ hot cocoa in hand, and pass their gifts along, each person unwrapping presents in front of an audience because everyone’s too curious not to look.

Jughead sits next to her on the rug, cross-legged, and sets a small present wrapped in candy cane-striped paper into her lap. She can tell by the size and shape that it’s a book, but she’s wholly unprepared for the exact book, and note, inside: a signed first edition of Toni Morrison’s  _ Beloved _ , complete with a note that reads  _ “To my beloved. Thank you for introducing me to your favorite author. Love, Jug.” _

She physically squeals as she grips the novel in her hands, and then drops it to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him towards her for a quick peck on the cheek. “I love it, Jug. How’d you manage to get it?”

He shrugs, but the smirk on his face gives away just how satisfied he is at her reaction. “Going to a pretty famous college has its perks sometimes, I guess.”

She smacks his bicep lightly and giggles, reaching behind herself for his gift. “Well, I don’t go to a pretty famous college, but I’d like to think I still got you something great.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it no matter what, babe,” he whispers into her ear, still too shy to be overly affectionate with her around their parents. Betty notices Gladys looking the other way, finally accepting their need for privacy, both as a couple and as individuals.

She struggles to lift the heavy box and pass it towards him, and his eyebrow raises at the sight of the large gift.

“Just open it, Jug,” she urges excitedly when he peels the wrapping paper away too slowly for her liking. At her encouragement, he rips the tape off the box and it opens to reveal a vintage Underwood typewriter, and Betty revels in his gasp of excitement and surprise.

“How do you like it?” she asks cheekily, already knowing the answer.

Eyes wide, he turns his gaze from the typewriter to her. “I love it, really, but now I’m wondering how on Earth I’m going to get this thing on the plane to Chicago.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Juggie,” she tells him, loud enough for both Polly and Jellybean to groan at her use of his nickname.

He laughs, setting the typewriter aside to pull her into his lap instead, and their sisters both shoot them disturbed looks. Oh, if only they knew.

 

~~~

~~~

 

Not even Jughead knows, really, because Betty keeps it as his real Christmas gift, one she hopes he’ll appreciate even more than the overly expensive vintage typewriter.

They wander into his room after the gifts have all been exchanged, FP asleep on the couch while Jellybean shoots him dirty looks every time his snores interfere with the dialogue of the movie. Betty thinks it quite funny, actually, and would have loved to stay to watch the interaction, but she has other plans.

“Here, Jug,” she says after rummaging around her purse for another little box, passing it over to him from across the bed. “Your gift.”

He eyes her skeptically, but still reaches for it. “You already got me a gift.”

She rolls her eyes at him, and he takes that as his cue to stop questioning her.

He sets the box on the edge of the bed and removes the top to find a pair of slim, white knee-high socks. Definitely female. “Betty?” He’s hesitant again, eyeing one of the socks as he holds it up in front of the both of them, and she shushes him with a finger to his lips.

He turns to her to find that her skinny jeans are gone, and she’s left in an oversized flannel (his) over a pair of matching white lace undergarments. “I want you to put them on me, Jug,” she whispers as seductively as she can, nearly purring as she lays on the bed, extending her legs in front of him.

He catches on quick and is suddenly on one knee before her, playing into the fantasy as he delicately slips one sock over the creamy skin of her calf up to her thigh, just as Prince Charming would slip on Cinderella’s shoe. Betty’s never loved him more.

He runs his fingers up and down her inner thigh while one hand works to pull the other sock up her other leg, and she moans at the feeling of him so close to her core. His fingers feel so good against her soft skin that she nearly forgets everything but  _ him _ , but then she shakes herself out of her reverie and remembers her plans.

She’s in charge tonight.

Her thighs clamp shut to stop his wanderings, and he looks up into her eyes, disappointed. She shakes her head lightly and orders him to take everything off but his boxers and then sit on the bed.

She undoes the buttons to the flannel and watches as he tugs his sweater off, his gaze traveling heatedly up and down her body. A thrill courses through her veins, and she smiles as she climbs up onto the bed, straddling his lap and letting his fingers wander to play with the tops of her socks.

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” he tells her reverently, still focused on trailing his fingers up and down the stitching of the white cotton fabric.

Her hands come up to cup his face, and she brings their lips together as she begins to move in his lap, coordinating the lick of her tongue against his lips with the grinding of her hips.

He moans, opening his mouth for her, and then they’re kissing feverishly, both too lost in each other’s lips to think straight.

Betty pulls back when he moves to mouth at the juncture of her neck and her collarbones, and she shuffles until she catches his gaze--intense, electrifying, full of love.

“What is it, baby?” he asks when she doesn’t let him press his lips to the skin of her shoulder. He looks scared now, worried that they’ve gone too far, done too much, and that she isn’t enjoying it, so she pecks his lips to reassure him before pulling away again.

“I just--I just want all of you, tonight.”

The smile that lights up his face is brighter than any Christmas tree in town, and she beams right back. She’s going to do this. With her boyfriend--the man she  _ loves _ .

She’s never enjoyed Christmas more.

 

~~~

~~~

 

The first week of March brings balloons, ice cream cake, and two candles to the Cooper doorstep (one a hot pink 16 and the other for good luck). Alice, like with every other family event, has taken the party-planning upon herself and invited nearly everyone in the phone book--including her ex-husband.

Hal busies himself stacking cans of cheap beer in the fridge while Alice mans the door, pushing Polly to greet all the partygoers after she takes their coats and gifts out of their hands. Betty, on the other hand, sips her green tea at the kitchen counter while waiting for something exciting to happen (maybe the pyramid of beer on the highest shelf will finally come toppling down on her father with the next can).

“Betty,” her mother hisses as she strides into the kitchen, arms carrying an empty tray that used to be full of deviled eggs and mini quiches and other hors d'oeuvres she’d cooked for the party. “Help your father with the drinks and then make sure he leaves this godforsaken kitchen to talk to some of the parents.”

Right. God forbid any of the Coopers didn’t engage in small talk with the narrow-eyed mothers of fair Riverdale.

Betty hears her father grumble to himself from behind the open fridge door, and she hops off the barstool to pry a can out of his grip. “That’s enough, dad. I think you’ve unboxed more six-packs than we’ll ever be able to finish--and you know mom would rather dump all that beer down the sink than have you drink it. Come on.”

She guides him into the living room, where the parents chat after their daughters run up to join the party in Polly’s room (the girls are doing their nails together while watching some romcom on the TV above her dresser).

Alice has already enthralled Ms. Schultz with tales of her gardening endeavors, and Hal gravitates towards his ex-wife despite the fact that he’d much rather talk about the pros and cons of an automatic car than some dahlias she’d planted after the last frost. Even he knows to stick to the Stepford-quo.

Her parents don’t act “loved-up,” exactly, but Betty still turns away at the sight of them together. They’re putting on a show for the others, and the forced artificiality of it all sends bile rising up her throat.

What’s even worse, Betty thinks, is that the act doesn’t end when old Mrs. Pino finally steps outside of the Cooper home and all of Polly’s friends have left. Her parents stand side by side as they watch Polly blow out the candles on her strawberry shortcake. She isn’t sure who they’re trying to fool--all four of them know the reality of the situation--but then, she thinks, they aren’t trying to fool anyone at all. They’re just acting civil on Polly’s special day.  _ Because  _ of Polly’s special day--March third, the day of the perfect family. 

Suddenly, Betty understands her boyfriend’s aversion to birthdays.

She stabs her slice of the cake repeatedly, but never lifts a piece to her mouth. She isn’t all that hungry anymore.

 

~~~

 

By April 1st, Betty’s email inbox is flooded with links from different colleges sending her to their online portals, where she can find her decision letters.

Columbia waitlists her, and Betty crosses it off her list immediately; there’s no way she’s going to wait any longer to hear back from a school that maybe-possibly wants her. She deserves better than that.

She gets into all of her safeties, and most of her targets, but ends up narrowing the list down to three main candidates. Three main candidates she can’t seem to choose between.

Alice must notice her stress, because she drives the both of them to the nearest nail salon--a small parlor in Greendale with a flashing pink neon sign advertising it as OPEN.

The two blondes settle into their chairs, and Betty visibly relaxes when the nail technician starts her routine procedure. There’s something calming about knowing there’s a system to her work, to how she first applies the cream along Betty’s hands and arms, then pushes in her cuticles, then applies the nail oils.

“This isn’t meant to rush you in any way, darling,” her mother starts, and the nail technicians pretend to not listen in on their conversation, “but have you put any thought towards a final decision?”

Betty wants to be bratty, wants to be a typical teenager and roll her eyes and mutter a  _ “yes, mom, of course” _ because how could she not have thought about it? But her mother’s gone out of her way to do something nice for her, for them, by bringing her here, and so she can’t. “I’m stuck choosing between three, actually,” she finally answers, shoulders tensing up again at the reminder that the deadline is creeping up on her faster than she’d like--the deadline for a decision that so greatly impacts her future.

“Well, I’m always here,” her mother states matter-of-factly as her nails get filed down into angular little squares.  _ Talk to me, _ Betty knows she means to say.

She sighs, resigned. “NYU is in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world, has some great resources, but also no physical campus. I think I’d feel a bit lost there, to be honest. Even with it being so close to home, to you and Polly.”

“Betty,” her mother sighs, nodding in confirmation when the woman holds up her chosen nail polish color, a question of  _ do you still want this one?  _ It’s a baby pink nude called Bare with Me, and Betty nearly rolls her eyes at the ridiculous name. She’s sure Jughead would get a kick out of the horrible pun, so she makes a mental note to text him about it when her nails dry. “I’m going to miss you next year no matter what--whether you’re in New York or Alaska. Not seeing your face every day is going to be hard, but I’ll gladly live with the pain as long as you’re happy. So pick a school that’s right for  _ you _ , and not for me, or Polly, or Jughead.”

She’s right. She’s always right.

Betty crosses NYU off her list right away. “The University of Chicago is pretty good for English majors,” she starts again, now wanting to hear her mother’s opinion on each university in question more than anything. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d missed talking to her like this until now. “It has an amazing reputation, but with that comes a lot of stress on students, a lot of competition. I’ve always been good in school, but what if I’m just there playing catch-up to everyone else for four years?” she wonders aloud.

“You’re a smart girl, Betty. I have no doubt that your work ethic will get you to the top of the class almost everywhere. Now, whether it also runs you into the ground with exhaustion is a whole different point of discussion. Again, it’s a question of happiness. Could you be happy there?”

Betty thinks about it. Maybe. Living in the middle of southern Chicago, so close to Jug again, she could probably be happy. But could she be her  _ happiest _ ? No, definitely not.

“What’s the last one, Betty?” her mother asks, top coat gliding over each of her nails now.

“Washington University in St. Louis. Gorgeous campus, well-organized student newspaper, renowned institution with students who are really supportive of each other. It’s in the middle of St. Louis and close enough to a Six Flags that I’ll definitely be getting a season pass.” Both she and her mother smile widely at that, and Betty makes her decision on the spot.

Once they’ve finished at the UV light drying station, Betty pulls her phone out of her pocket immediately and opens up her chat with Jughead.

**WashU class of ‘22!**

She waits a bit, and then her phone erupts into confetti:  **Congratulations, babe! Damn, I’ve got such a smart girlfriend.**

As she and her mother climb into the car, she gets another text.  **Only a 4.5 hour drive? Get ready, Cooper, you’re going to have a pretty regular visitor. Better pack an extra sleeping bag. Unless you usually let guests into your bed ;)**

**I may make an exception for this one,** she sends back with a bright smile. She hadn’t even thought about how close they would be. It’s not ideal, that’s for sure, but if this year has taught her anything it’s that they can weather any storm, especially of the long-distance kind.

She accepts her offered spot at the university as soon as she logs onto her laptop at home and FaceTimes him immediately after that.

They talk through the night.

 

~~~

 

She turns in her prom permission slip at the last minute.

Jughead’s finals coincide with the dance and, as much as she’s fine going with a few friends instead of with her boyfriend, they all seem to find partners to replace her. Archie will be coming back from Ithaca in time for Veronica to force him into a tailored tux and dress shoes, Kevin asks a Southsider who graduated from Riverdale a few years ago (Joaquin, she thinks his name was), and she’d rather stay home with a bowl of popcorn and reruns of Golden Girls than quintuple wheel for the night.

But Ethel corners her in the hallway, convincing her to tag along as her date, and how can Betty refuse? So she has Alice sign off on the slip the evening before the due date and turns it in to the main office as soon as Riverdale High’s doors open.

Ethel’s immediately enthusiastic about their night together and texts her continuously throughout the week.

**Should we color coordinate? Like black and white, pastel blue and pink?**

**I’m getting a corsage for you from Rosewood Flowers. Do you want roses, carnations, lilies?**

**Nvm, I accidentally agreed to orchids. Couldn’t really understand what the woman was saying over the phone.**

**How tall are your heels gonna be? Cause I have to make up for our height difference with mine.**

Veronica takes it upon herself to plan everything out for Betty, and the blonde isn’t sure if it’s more out of pity or her tendency to micromanage. Either way, she always double-checks Betty’s replies to Ethel’s questions to ensure one-hundred percent accuracy.

**I’m getting an emerald green dress (actually, V’s getting it for me). So maybe you could wear a dress in another jewel tone? That could be really cute. But really, get whatever you like. It’s your prom.**

Veronica rolls her eyes as she reads over Betty’s shoulder. “You’re too nice for your own good sometimes, you know? Actually, scratch that. You’re too nice for your own good all the times. Live a little; tell her to get something that works with green. No ‘maybe’s or ‘whatever’s or question marks. Remember, B, you’ve got places to be, people to see, and--”

“Ass to kick. Got it.” Betty deletes the last half of her text and adds  **I’m getting two inch heels** to answer Ethel’s last question. She hits send before she can overthink her answer.

Veronica pats her on the back like a proud parent and then flops backwards onto her bed. “Who knew? Ethel Muggs, excessive planner extraordinaire.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Betty jokes, lying down next to her. She looks up at where some glow-in-the-dark stars are stuck to the ceiling, barely shining against the lighting of Veronica’s bedroom. The raven-haired beauty had convinced Smithers to place them there back when she first moved to Riverdale, and she’s never bothered to have them taken down since. Betty would bet her emerald green prom dress and two inch heels that her best friend still finds some comfort in their light.

“Hey, I never said it was a bad thing. In fact, I’m glad you have a date who cares so much.”

Veronica doesn’t explicitly say it, but Betty can hear the meaning behind her friend’s words-- _ your night’s going to be just as good without him by your side, if not better. _ “Yeah,” she agrees slowly after a beat. “We’ll see.”

 

Ethel’s planning seems to save their pre-prom pictures (Alice gushes over the two of them hugging in their gowns as she switches from phone to camera, taking dozens of photos on each), but not the actual event itself. Betty doesn’t think she’s been so bored since watching her father mope around the kitchen at Polly’s unsettling birthday party.

The couples, as predicted, have left her behind to engage in other activities in the corners of the gym, purposely pressed against each other to hide in the lingering shadows. What she hadn’t predicted, however, was Ethel getting dragged off towards the punch bowl by none other than Dilton Doiley himself. She watches as they spill a bunch of the juice while ladling it into plastic cups and can’t help but smile with them. She’s glad they’ve found each other after all these years.

They both set their cups down on a nearby table to dance to Frank Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight,” and Betty carefully steps around a puddle of  _ something _ to reach her seat at one of the round tables--there’s no way she’s standing up, by herself, at the edge of the dancefloor during a slow song. Betty Cooper’s a confident young woman, but that self-confidence doesn’t stand a chance against the stares of her peers’ judgmental eyes.

She’s about to tuck her long dress underneath herself and sit when Veronica stumbles over to her, a bit wobbly in her stilettos. Someone must have managed to spike the punch without the chaperones having noticed yet. “Come on, B,” she whines. “Come dance.”

Archie follows behind his girlfriend, clearly just as intoxicated, and Betty stares pointedly at the two of them. “With who? You guys should go enjoy the dance. I’ll stay here.”

“With who?” Veronica giggles loudly, as if Betty’s said something hilarious. She bends forwards, manicured hand clutching at her stomach, and then begins to hiccup as the laughter subsides. “With him, silly!” She points over Betty’s shoulder towards the entrance to the gym.

The silk of Betty’s dress wrinkles as she turns at the hips to look behind her, and suddenly she can’t breathe.

_ He’s here. _

All of him: low-hanging suspenders, oversized suit, knit beanie.

Her heart beats faster in her chest, blood rushing through her ears as she trips over herself to get to him.

“But-your finals?” She can’t even speak, tongue heavy in her mouth and lips numb.

His warm blue eyes lighten to a freshwater blue, and suddenly she’s swimming in their depths. “It was my turn to surprise you, baby,” he answers, arms extending to catch her in a hug.

She leans her head on his chest, can feel his warmth radiating out through the white button-down shirt under his jacket. His arms loop around her waist, tugging her closer into him, and suddenly her emotions get the best of he r. He’s here. She’s in his arms. And she can’t believe it.

She doesn’t even realize she’s been crying until he pulls her away from his chest, thumb swooping across her cheekbone to catch any stray tears. His gaze is so loving, so pure, that she can’t help but smile through more tears when he tells her, “Stop crying, baby, you’re going to ruin that beautiful makeup.”

“I’m just so happy you’re here, Juggie,” she tells him as his hand reaches for hers.

“I know, Betts. Me too. And you’d make me an even happier man by letting me have this dance.”

She laughs, giddy at the thought of her boyfriend putting up with slow-dancing in public for her, and lets him lead her to the center of the dance floor, where they meet up with her friends.

Ethel shoots her a wink from across the gym, and Betty rolls her eyes. She should have known.

 

~~~

 

As much as she’d enjoyed their online date s, Betty decides there’s nothing quite like having him here, by her side, all day.

He drives her to Greendale on a Saturday afternoon, goosebumps raising on her arms as they race through the streets of Riverdale on his bike, the exhilaration of the ride never quite wearing off.

They don’t stop to park in front of Maurice’s bookstore, and she raises an eyebrow in question when he turns onto an old driveway off of Main Street, paved in cracked concrete and forged through the woods. It brings them to a small farmhouse in a clearing in the woods, wrap-around porch littered with colorful toys: ropes, rubber balls, stuffed animals, and bones.

_ Bones? _

“Juggie, what--”

She’s cut off by the yelping of a small pup as the front door opens to reveal a burly older woman in a worn-out sundress and flip flops. “Jughead, welcome!” she shouts in greeting as she climbs down the front steps, at least three more dogs of varying sizes following after her.

A border collie takes off, running laps around the front yard, and Betty laughs in amazement at its speed.

“That’s Dakota,” the woman tells them as she follows the blonde’s gaze. “We just got her from Missouri. One of the older ones, but I imagine she’ll be gone soon enough. Too cute not to.”

“What? Where’s she going?” Betty asks, genuinely confused. The woman’s laughter rings out, and Jughead’s arm moves to wrap around her waist, squeezing it reassuringly. Why are they acting like she’s just asked the dumbest question ever? “What?” she asks again, this time with a frown on her face.

Jughead quickly kisses it away. “It’s a pet rescue center, babe. She’ll get adopted,” he explains, a hint of amusement in his tone.

She swats his arm away from her waist. “How was I supposed to know that? You never tell me anything,” she defends, huffing as she crosses her arms.

The woods echo with the burly woman’s laughter once more, and she sends Betty a warm smile. “A surprise, huh? Well, you’re in for a good one, dear. Let’s go inside.” She waves them into the house behind her, and Betty’s surprised to find a reception desk in the foyer, a sign for an office on one of the closed doors to her left, and a huge fenced-in playpen with different toys inside. Cats roam the rafters of the high ceilings, and a little chocolate labrador retriever runs back and forth through a blue play tunnel over the carpet.

A chihuahua yips at Betty from behind the white metal fence, and she jumps in alarm. Jughead throws his arm over her shoulder in reassurance.

“Welcome to the Greendale Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,” the woman announces, rounding the desk to grab two brochures before handing them over to the young couple. “Here’s a list of our rescues up for adoption. Feel free to play with them, find one you love. I’ll go reel in Dakota,” she chuckles and then slips back out the front door, tattered sundress swaying after her.

“Jughead, we can’t,” she starts, shaking her head when the words don’t come any more. What was he thinking? Adopting a puppy right before they leave for college?

“We can’t, Betts, but someone else can. Someone who lost their puppy this year, but would love to take care of another one.”

She turns her head to look up, eyes wide as they catch his. “Jellybean?” she questions quietly, already knowing the answer. Still, she waits for his slow nod to kiss the wide smile off his face. His arms wrap tighter around her, and she sinks against his lips.  _ God, how did she ever get so lucky? _

“How’d you like to pick out her new puppy, babe?” he asks when they pull away for air, but she’s already a step ahead of him. She slips through the gate and falls to her knees, eyes bursting with tears of happiness as a baby beagle bounds into her lap. Jughead sits down next to her, reaches for a rope toy, and immediately engages in a tug of war with a husky with the brightest blue eyes Betty’s ever seen.

Some of the sleepier puppies lay in corners of the room, curled up in little groups, and Betty fights the urge to tell Jughead to get all of them. She wants all of them.

A bigger puppy with golden fur bounds into her lap, tail wagging, and she laughs when it nearly knocks her onto her back, licking at her face.

“Down, Pancake,” the woman admonishes, kindly but with enough reproach to convince the puppy to pull away. “I’m so sorry about that, she just gets easily excited,” she explains, but Betty shakes her head.

“No, no, it’s totally fine.” She reaches out to run her fingers through the dog’s coat of fur, other hand coming up to scratch behind her ears. “You said her name’s Pancake?” Odd, but not as odd as Hotdog. In fact, it’s perfect. The Jones family was never known for its Mary Sue names.

“Yup, Pancake. But don’t let the name fool you, she’s a feisty one, that one. A border collie-golden retriever mix from Texas.”

Betty looks the dog over. Feisty and excitable, yet sweet. So sweet. Betty can’t help but laugh when Pancake licks affectionately at her palms. 

“We’ll take her,” Jughead announces as he stands up next to her, and her gaze follows him up.

“What? Just like that? I mean, I love her, I want her too, but--”

“You love her, JB will love her. She makes you happy, Betty, and that makes me happy.” He leans down to drop a kiss to the crown of her head. “Keep playing with the puppies, babe. I’ll take care of the paperwork.”

She plays with JB’s new puppy as he and the woman slip into her office, and Archie shows up at the front door a few minutes later, keys to the pick-up truck in hand. He offers her a ride home with him and Pancake, but she declines. She’d much rather stick with her knight in shining leather.

Jughead takes them for a detour on their way home, and she shows him just how much she’d appreciated their afternoon together.

 

~~~

 

It’s her turn to take him somewhere when the weather decides to suffocate all of the Northeast in a scorching heatwave, and she refuses to step outside of her air-conditioned house when people are quite literally baking cookies over the dashboards of their cars.

She texts him apologetically, reminding him to drink a lot of water and stay indoors on such a hot day, right before grabbing herself some mint chocolate chip ice cream from the freezer and dropping to sprawl out over the living room couch.

Three quarters of the way through the pint, cool metal spoon still between her lips, Jughead busts through the front door, white tank top on and flannel wrapped over his jeans at the waist.

“What the--?” she splutters, attempting to sit up but falling back down, defeated, when he nearly doubles over with laughter. “Alright, laugh it up,” she mutters. “Go ahead, laugh at the pathetic girl eating ice cream by the pint.”

“God, you’re so dramatic, babe,” he tells her, still chuckling. “I love you, but you gotta get up.”

“Why?” she whines, closing her eyes and bringing the cold ice cream carton to rest against her forehead. It feels so good.

“It’s such a nice day out.”

“It’s not,” she complains. “It’s fucking hot, and I’m going to fry up out there.”

The smile never drops off his face as he pulls her up by the hand, dragging her out the back door and onto the Coopers’ patio against her every complaint.

“It’s not that bad, Betts. You just gotta cool down a bit first.”

She rolls her eyes. “And how the hell am I supposed to do that?”

He whistles, and suddenly Archie and Veronica run around the side of the house, water guns in hand. Her boyfriend pulls his own out from under the flannel, and she barely has time to flinch before they’re spraying her down. She runs around the yard, shrieking, and turns her head in time to catch Veronica turning her gun towards Jughead, the two of them now waging a water war against each other.

Betty takes the moment to jump on Archie, pulling his gun out of his hands, and sprays all three of her attackers silly.

Sweet, sweet revenge.

 

~~~

 

He sneaks into her room through the ladder he pulls from the Coopers’ garage, and if Alice hears the racket from all the way in her bedroom, she doesn’t say anything.

They stay up all night, rambling into their pillows as the stars burn brighter and brighter, and Betty falls asleep to the sound of his soothing voice, heart full.

She doesn’t know how many hours of sleep they end up getting, just knows that he somehow wakes up before her, and his fingers trail up and down her arm with every breath.

“Wake up, baby,” he whispers into her skin, and she lets her lashes flutter open slowly. He’s propped up on his elbow above her, bed sheets slipping down his torso to reveal abs she can’t help but marvel at, a subtle smirk on his face as he catches her gaze. “I’ve got more plans for us today.”

She groans and mutters as she stretches out underneath the covers. “I’d be perfectly happy just lying in bed with you for the rest of my life.”

“Is that a proposal, Betts?” he asks, softly and with a hint of amusement.

“No,” she shakes her head, bottom lip now trapped under her teeth. “But one day, soon, sure. Because I know that I love you, Jughead Jones. You’re it for me.”

She giggles loudly as he swoops down to press a sloppy kiss to her lips, and then moans when he doesn’t relent.

He doesn’t say it back this time, but she already knows. That he loves her. That they’re it for each other.

He doesn’t let her out of bed for the rest of the day. They’ve got the rest of their lives to get through all his plans.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know your thoughts. I'd love to hear from you :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! (And for taking the time out of your sprousehart-induced freak out to do so, as well.)
> 
> I hope to see you all back here for the epilogue, which should be out really soon. <3


	6. The Unknown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that it's been so long, but here's the epilogue to Little Talks.
> 
> A massive thank you to @dottie-wan-kenobi for being the best beta in the world. Dottie, this entire story would not exist without you, and for that I'll be forever grateful.
> 
> Thank you to anyone who ever commented on or supported this story--it means the world to me--but especially to @justcourbeau and @raptorlily. I love you all so very much.
> 
> Now, if you want to cry as much as I did while writing this, I recommend you listen to Feel Something by Jaymes Young on repeat while reading this. Just a slight suggestion. Enjoy!

 

Nancy’s sharp stiletto heel sinks into the football field turf as the graduating students file out from the fieldhouse and to their seats in front of the stands full of friends, families, and other onlookers. She lets out a small shriek as she stumbles, and Betty reaches out a hand to catch her. Looking down at her own pair of silver strappy sandals, Betty’s glad she’d opted out of heels for the day.

 

The sun’s already beaming down on them despite the early hour of the morning, and Betty groans at the knowledge that the incoming midday heat will slowly cook them all beneath their navy blue robes. 

 

(The student body had petitioned to change the color of their graduation cap and gown to gold, but Weatherbee had refused. Betty’s fingers itch, the urge to rip the garment off of herself stronger and stronger with every step. Sure, they would have looked worse in some bright and shiny gold gowns, but they might not have looked tomato red in the face from heat stroke either.)

 

“Thanks, Betty,” Nancy whispers as she rights herself, then continues her strut to the seat that had been assigned to her on the opposite end of the stage that had been built for the ceremony. Betty climbs up the stairs, following the path she’d memorized at rehearsal yesterday, and takes her own assigned seat.

 

Dilton Doiley climbs up behind her, skipping his chair and creeping past every other student to reach the podium at the center of the stage. He’s got a light blue stole where Betty’s is a silky gold, indicating his status as salutatorian of this year’s graduating class. With a slight turn of her head, Betty catches Valerie sitting behind her, right next to Trev. The bright white of the valedictorian’s stole shines in the sunlight hitting her shoulders, her head turned down as she runs over her speech again and again, mumbling the words to herself as she does.

 

Betty’s fingers grip the edge of her golden sash, feeling the soft fabric bunch up with every push and pull, and she finds her lips settled into a smile. She isn’t first, second, or even third in her class, but she’s in the top ten, and she’s more than proud of that. One of her many goals coming into high school had been to keep her spot at the top, to stay the perfect Betty Cooper of her past, but times had changed, and so had she. She’s done her best, she’s gotten more than far enough. Betty won’t be up there reciting any speeches like Valerie or Dilton today, but she doesn’t need to be. She’s not even quite sure what she’d have to say.

 

Josie climbs up the stairs while staring out into the crowd (for her father, Betty knows), a frown building on her face as she scans the stands to no avail. Her mother, the mayor, waves happily from the top left corner, but only her purse sits next to her, and not a famed musician. Betty’s heart breaks for the girl as her own gaze shifts to the rows below Mayor McCoy, catching on the ghost of a man she’d once known but hasn’t seen in so long. 

 

Her father might not be the same man from her childhood, but she’s not the same girl from back then either, and so she can’t blame him for that. At least he’d shown up today.

 

She shoots him a small wave before turning to the other side of the stands and fiddling with her golden stole again. Her mother’s piercing green eyes match Betty’s own, but a smile cracks at her face, and Betty’s stomach bottoms out. The Alice from her past might have compared the gold to Dilton’s blue, to Valerie’s white, but she’s more proud than Betty herself feels, and Betty finds herself beaming back, especially when Polly climbs up onto Jughead’s shoulders and waves wildly at her sister, blonde braids whipping in the wind.

 

The rest of the crowd follows suit as all of the students finish taking their seats, and then Dilton quiets them down with the beginning of his speech.

 

Betty listens to his pointed words, managing to hold in her laughter whenever she glimpses one of Veronica’s disdainful expressions throughout the procession.

 

Her legs stick together, and to the gown, with sweat, and her cap grows a little more crooked as the hours drag on and the sun lifts itself higher above them, but Betty no longer cares. She throws her cap into the air at the mark of Valerie’s last words, and her spirits raise with it. Her high school years have come to an end, and she’s got the whole summer to be scared for her future. For now, though, she’ll just enjoy those looks of pride, that feeling of pride, that comes with searching for all those smiles in the crowd.

 

~~~

 

The summer months bring with them a nostalgia that Betty knows is out of place. She hasn’t left this town yet, had never even thought that she’ll end up missing it when she does, and yet she can’t help but view it with a few extra pairs of rose-colored sunglasses. 

 

Riverdale had always been too small for her, with its secrets and lies spreading faster than any seasonal flu, and yet Betty catches herself reveling in the feeling of knowing everyone’s names as she and Polly walk by them to Pop’s for lunch.

 

The diner’s bell rings above them, and Betty swears she’ll never forget the sound. She’ll never forget that there’s a booth empty for the two of them no matter the time of day, that Pop will have their orders ready to go before they even ask for them. She looks past Polly as they eat, watching as Chuck and Nancy fiddle with the jukebox machine, as Dilton marches into the restaurant in his boy scouts uniform, as Pop wipes down the counter in front of him. The bright red and blue lights don’t seem to bother her eyes as much as they used to—they’re more of a comfort now in the way that they wash over everyone at once. Polly’s blonde hair even turns as red as Cheryl Blossom’s, and Betty realizes that hers must look pretty similar. She’s just as much a part of Riverdale as the rest of them, and leaving the comfort of her hometown’s going to be far more difficult than she’d thought.

 

She’s going to have to find another Riverdale, another group of people to take her in and help her feel safe amid the dangers of the world around them. Another town with pep, one that’s not necessarily enclosed by a line of trees but by the boundaries of Betty’s new friendships and the old ones she’ll have to work hard to keep.

 

Polly waves her out of her daze with a straw, her brows furrowed until they smooth out again, and then she nods in understanding. “I’ll miss you too,” she whispers, and Betty wills the tears to stay back for another few seconds, minutes, weeks. She hasn’t left yet. Not yet.

 

~~~

 

Veronica calls her in the few days leading up to the first of September, when Betty’s knee-deep in the clothes that she’d pulled out of her closet and now lay on her bedroom floor as she tries to pack them up.

 

Not a few seconds later, Smithers pulls up to the Cooper household with a determined Veronica in his backseat, and Betty’s forced to join her on a trip to the nail salon. ( _ “We both need a break, Betty. I think I’ll go absolutely mad if I have to hear another lecture from mother on how to iron my pleated skirts. Doesn’t she understand that I’ll just have everything dry-cleaned?” _ )

 

They both come back with powder pink nails— _ gel _ , at Veronica’s insistence—and Veronica tells Smithers that she’ll only be a second before following Betty inside of her house, supposedly to pick up a tank top she’d left behind during a past sleepover that she just  _ had to have _ before leaving for Ithaca.

 

Betty doesn’t think much of it, with Veronica having nearly had meltdowns over clothing items far less important than a tank top on previous occasions, until the click of Veronica’s heels on hardwood gets drowned out by a chorus of “Surprise!” and the explosions of party poppers, confetti raining down all over the living room.

 

“Happy Birthday, Betty,” Veronica squeals, throwing her arms around her best friend, and Betty can’t help but stay rooted to her spot in the entrance to the room. To say she’s surprised would be an understatement, as her birthday isn’t for another month, and the complete shock must be evident on her features because Kevin climbs out from behind the couch, a triumphant grin splitting his face as he continues to whoop and cheer.

 

“We got you so good.” He beams, and Betty finally laughs, her breathing uneven.

 

“Yeah, you did. Are month-early surprise parties a trend I haven’t heard about yet?” she jokes, and Kevin serves her a stern look.

 

“They are  _ now _ , thanks to moi. I’m the genius behind the entire operation, thank you for asking.” Then his grin dims a bit, his words slowing as he seems to bite his tongue before continuing. “We just wanted to make sure we got to celebrate before we all left, you know?”

 

She hadn’t even thought about that yet, about celebrating her nineteenth birthday with no one but the few friends she’ll have found within the first week or so of classes. Suddenly, Betty throws her arms around her friend, more thankful than words will ever allow her to say.

 

“Hey, it was my idea too,” Veronica complains, and Betty giggles before widening her embrace to include both of her best friends.

 

“Happy Birthday, Betty.” Ethel approaches from the kitchen, presents dripping from her arms as Alice follows with a strawberry shortcake on the tray in her arms.

 

“Wait, mom!” Polly screeches as she shuts the door to the backyard behind her. She’s panting, breathless, her headband nearly falling off her head. “We’ve got another surprise before the cake. Come on, Betty,” she urges, turning back to the door and stepping outside once again.

 

Betty follows her out onto the deck to find two of the Jones family members, including Jellybean with her pigtails and a huge baseball bat in her arms. Betty’s slightly alarmed until she looks to Jughead, who’s tying a rope in a knot around one of the wooden beam supporting the veranda. He turns to catch her running towards him, and then she’s wrapped up in his arms and he’s planting a kiss on the crown of her head.

 

“Happy birthday, baby,” he whispers, and Betty could cry. She could laugh. She does laugh when she looks up at the pinata hanging above them from the rope that Jughead had been securing, a picture of Anna and Elsa from Frozen pasted to its side. Jughead follows her gaze, lets out a nervous chuckle of his own, and then explains, “Veronica said you’d like it, didn’t explain why.”

 

“And she never will,” Betty promises, turning around to find her best friend watching them with a glint in her eye. Veronica’s now got her own ginger-haired boyfriend with his arms wrapped tightly around her from the back, and Betty can’t help but marvel at how they’d gotten so lucky.

 

She cries this time, laughs through the tears, and borrows the baseball bat from Jellybean to swing at the hanging pinata. Everyone takes a turn until the candy’s been scattered all over the veranda’s wooden floorboards, and then Jellybean runs around collecting as much of it as she can, shrieking in delight at every new find.

 

The little girl’s lips are stained blue from one too many raspberry lollipops by the end of the night, and it’s all that Betty can think about as she falls into bed once everyone’s left. The blue of Jellybean’s lips, the blue of Jughead’s eyes, the blue of Riverdale’s skies and streams and schools. How she’ll miss that blue.

 

~~~

 

Her clothes get piled into the trunk of Alice’s station wagon, her books and pens and boxes of knicknacks get relegated to whatever space happens to be left, and then the Coopers pile in, Jughead replacing Hal in his spot in the passenger seat.

 

Her father had already said goodbye the night before, his gift (a small silver necklace with a gear-shaped pendant) bringing her to tears on the Coopers’ front steps as he’d driven away in his new car, back to Greendale and out of the fog.

 

Betty’s not upset anymore about him not coming to St. Louis, hadn’t really expected him to come in the first place, and she’s not really sure if that should sting more than it does but decides not to focus on the feeling.

 

Instead, she stares out the window as their car takes a sharp left out of Riverdale and towards the interstate highway, barreling past the backside of the “Welcome to Riverdale” sign she’s seen far too many times in her life.

 

The back is an empty canvas, no “Thank you for visiting!”, no “Come back soon!”. She’s leaving, for good, and the town couldn’t seem to care less. It’ll keep moving without her, and she’ll keep moving without everyone stuck in that dreamscape, until she comes back for those few weeks out of the year, back to the comfort of Sweetwater River and its trails. Pop’s might be out of business the next time she comes back, the Pembrooke may be a new municipal parking lot, but that river won’t change course during her lifetime, and something about its steady winding path eases Betty’s nerves.

 

Polly reaches across the backseat as they exit New York an hour and a half later, heading west for New Jersey—and eventually the rest of the country that awaits them—and Betty lets her intertwine their fingers together.

 

Jughead and Alice continue to debate over which route will reduce their travel time from fifteen hours and two minutes to fourteen hours and change—a fairly useless discussion in the grand scheme of things—and Betty tunes them out as she turns her head once more towards the window, looking out at the marshlands and fields that stare right back at her.

 

~~~

 

The limited space in the car meant that all of her bedding, pots, pans, hangers, desk lamp, laundry hamper, and more would be left behind in Riverdale, with the family spending just a bit more to rebuy all of them from St. Louis’ IKEA—all the way across Forest Park from WashU’s campus.

 

(“A thousand points for creativity to whichever Missourian came up with that one,” Jughead had snarked upon hearing the park’s name, and Betty had to hide her laughter in her sleeve at the looks they’d subsequently received from those walking past them.)

 

Alice had insisted she set up Betty’s dorm room herself, picking the bed farthest from the air conditioning vent for her daughter so that she wouldn’t be “susceptible to the dry, forced air first.” In a similar line of thinking, she’d bought the best humidifier Bed Bath & Beyond had to offer, despite Betty’s protests that she wouldn’t have to use it more than once over the course of the semester.

 

“Well, you better use it anyway, darling,” had been the response, shorter than usual, and Betty had relented. Her mother had seemed on edge ever since the car had crossed into Missouri, constantly reapplying her lipstick and smoothing down her skirt, sticking to that idea of perfection Betty knew only resurfaced under stressful conditions.

 

“Mom, you okay?” she finally asks after Alice struggles to shove a storage bin through the slim doorway to Betty’s room—a bin that would have fit perfectly had she just flipped it on its side.

 

Alice turns to face her daughter, sets the clothes hangers in her hands on the floor of the closet, and shakes her head slightly as she moves to sit next to Betty on the now made-up bed. “You’re my first, Betty,” she finally sighs, eyes pointed down into her lap. “It’s hard to let you go.”

 

“I’ll miss you so much, Mom,” comes Betty’s choked whisper, her arms wrapping around her mother’s side. “I’ll call all the time, I promise.”

 

Alice laughs, a small chuckle, and then shakes her head again. “You have to live for yourself now, Betty. Call whenever you need me, but go out there and live, don’t worry about me. I’ll be alright.”

 

“I love you.”

 

“Love you too.”

 

~~~

 

Jughead takes her out for breakfast the morning they’re set to leave her behind in Missouri, carrying two bagels in a small paper bag as they walk the paths of Forest Park to Art Hill, a slope of land overlooking the golf course pond on one side and the St. Louis Art Museum on the other.

 

The wild grass rustles with the slight breeze, and Betty tucks her skirt under herself as she sinks to the ground, her legs crossed.

 

“You feel ready for all this?” he asks her through a mouthful of cream cheese bagel, his eyes earnest for an honest answer. She has to give him one.

 

“No, not really. It’ll be hard, I know. I’m just hoping I’ll find a way to,” she breathes in, “push through it.”

 

“I know you will, Betts,” he affirms, reaching out a hand to brush his fingers over her knee. “You’re more than ready, more than equipped for all the changes coming your way. That’s why I asked if you feel ready, not if you  _ are _ ready. I know you are. Now you just have to believe it too.”

 

The wind blows hot air across the back of her neck, her ponytail swaying like the blades of grass, and Betty can hear it whisper as it moves. Quietly, almost imperceptibly, but still as if it knows she’s there, as if it wants her to be there, as if it wants her to listen. Again and again. With every movement and nervous tick of her fingers, with every blink of her lashes and bite of her lip it’s there for her, the St. Louis wind. 

 

“Maybe I do.”

 

He pulls her closer, arm slung over her shoulders as her head falls back onto his chest, and Betty breathes again. The wind washes over her.

 

~~~

 

A few days and what feels like millions of minutes later, Betty steps out of her dorm, her new roommate Lexi’s snores following her out, and treks across campus to Simon Hall, where her first class of the semester will begin in only a few minutes. She stops a few feet before the open door, takes a deep breath, and tightens her ponytail, then takes her first step forward into the unknown.

 

Her phone buzzes in her pocket, a “good luck today!” text from Veronica, and Betty knows she’ll be okay.

  
  


**Fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading and supporting me. Please leave any questions, comments, concerns, or reviews below. I love hearing all of your thoughts, and would especially like to know if there are any loose ends that you feel still need tying up (possibly in a coda??).
> 
> Anyway, I just really am so grateful to everyone reading. Sending you all so much love.
> 
> Best,  
> Mari <3 <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it thus far! Please don't forgot to leave a comment. I'd love to know what you thought. The next update should be within the next few days. Monday, at the latest.
> 
> I finally made a tumblr account on a whim last night, so if you'd like to come chat, you can find me @writeraquamarinara. 
> 
> (Or maybe you can just come on over to help me with all my technical difficulties. I cannot seem to understand this site. But I'm trying my best. I promise.)
> 
> Have a good day, y'all! xo
> 
> PS: If anyone is confused, yes, Polly is younger than Betty in this story. *shrugs shoulders* That's just how it is.


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